Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone
by AlfheimWanderer
Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present. Those words describe Witches in the Moonlit world, with their daughters inheriting their role without exceptions. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by cruel fate. A boy who dreamed of becoming a magus, but failed. A boy, who carves his path through blood and wand. A Boy, a Potter, and a Thief.
1. You're a Wizard, Shinji!

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh impossible crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1.<strong> _Y'er a Wizard, Shinji!_

A young Matou Shinji stared down at the missive in his hands clutched in his hands, his mind barely able to comprehend the letter that had somehow been addressed to him from someone at a Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A letter delivered by owl - obviously some kind of familiar - from what he only assumed was either in the United States or the United Kingdom, given the language of the letter.

But the fact that it was written in English wasn't the most troubling thing about it.

He'd learned that language some time ago - at least the written form, with all the books he'd ended up reading. Unfortunately, his spoken was out of practice, as he hadn't exactly had much of an opportunity to speak it after the last time he'd studied abroad. It wasn't the fact that somehow, the familiar that had delivered it had traveled so far, or had known exactly where he was (a disconcerting thought, as it meant it was somehow keyed to him, as if he had a spell put on him from his youth and had been _unaware_ of it - a truly dangerous notion).

It was the fact that this letter purported to offer him acceptance from a _school_ for Witchcraft and _Wizardry._

Witchcraft he understood well enough, given that it usually involved the curses and shamanistic techniques - potions, medicines, spirit exorcism and curses that uses a material medium - certain practitioners were known to use. He'd heard it was popular in the East, though all he really knew about it were that it had been named after its primary Western practitioners - Witches: ladies of eternity bound to destiny before they were born, destined to become perfected magi like those spellcasters of fantasy - beings that would slowly disappear as the world modernized.

Such techniques weren't taught by the Association, as they saw this craft as the province of either Witches or barbarians - neither of which they could really learn from - or had any interest in the Origin, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that an institution might exist to teach what he knew was called Black Magic.

But it was the word _Wizardry _that was what stopped him cold.

_'A school for Wizardry? Impossible.'_

As anyone who was at all involved with the world of magecraft, the only ones styled _wizard_ in the moonlit world were those who had attained a true magic, like Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, or those, who through sheer power and competence, had strength bordering on magic, like Barthomeloi Lorelei, who was one of only two _Wizard Marshals_ the Association recognized. The sheer presumptuousness of calling something a School for Wizardry...

...well, it is said that none are so indignant or defensive of their position as one who has next to nothing.

And Matou Shinji was exactly that - someone who had assumed that he would become their heir of the Matou family, that he was special - despite knowing he had no power at all. Someone who clutched at straws for anything that would make him special.

Something like what he held in his hand now.

He swallowed, imagining what it might feel like to be called a Wizard.

_Wizardry._

Wizard Marshal Matou Shinji.

...he had to admit that had a pleasant ring to it, even as impossible as he knew it to be. He had seen the room where his adopted sister Sakura had been infested by worms, after all, after which his Father turned away from him, admitting he was a replacement. That his mother, useless woman that she was, had been killed because of him, whatever remained of her laying at the bottom of the worm pit. She died because he been useless, even though her sorcery trait should have guaranteed inheritance.

Useless. Useless. Useless.

He rejected it. His mind rejected it. His existence rejected it, and so he had grown cold, thinking of his replacement as useless, as responsible for all the suffering in his life, thinking of how he could hurt her. Not that he had the chance, not with Grandfather always training _her_, always spending time with _  
>her, <em>giving _her_ the position that had been all he wanted.

If he didn't reject it, he would break. Matou Shinji would break. Matou Shinji would shatter to pieces.

His one chance at salvation was held in his hands now. This School for Witchcraft (he steadfastly decided to ignore the rest of it) had accepted him, told him he was special, when he knew that all others considered him a failure.

...what choice did he have but to take it? Even Witchcraft was something, after all.

As he read it, he saw there were two sheets of paper behind the original letter - one with a list of required supplies and equipment, with the other being a note with additional instructions for international students.

The equipment was straightforward enough, as much of it seemed like ingredients for potions. He smiled at the mention of a Wand being required though - an amplification type mystic code was commonly given as a coming of age present among magi, but somehow he didn't think Grandfather would let him have one. It would be something he'd have to purchase then. For a moment, he wondered why it wasn't an Azoth Sword (the most common amplification-type Mystic Code), but then he remembered that this was a school of Witchcraft - wands and staves were more likely to be accepted. Plus giving teenagers knives might be dangerous, he supposed.  
><em><br>A wand..._

He could see how some might see it as a proof of having magic. After all, who else would have a use for one?

The clothing was more problematic, but he supposed that magi in general were sticklers for tradition, and presumably witches all the more so. Tradition in many cases was all that mattered, as he had learned all too well, more than blood, more than…well, anything.

As for the instructions, they were simple enough:

_Mr. Matou,_

_As you are an international student whose known magical relatives are deceased, a Portkey will be provided for you at the end of summer for you to come to Britain and acquire your school supplies, should you decide to accept a position at Hogwarts. Should you have no one willing or able to accompany you, or should you require orientation to Magical Britain, please do not hesitate to request a chaperone from our teaching staff when you send your owl._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Filius Flitwick  
>Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry<em>

He frowned as a line caught his eye…

_...when you send your owl..._

…a line echoed in the original letter.

He was expected to send a reply by owl…but he didn't have an owl. Or any familiar capable of making a long distance trip. Or a familiar at all, for that matter. And somehow, he didn't think he could just send a reply through the post.

This meant he had to ask someone about sending a message to wherever this Hogwarts was. But who? His father, last proper Matou with any ounce of magical ability, who was a drunkard these days? Who treated him as nothing more than a nuisance after learning about Sakura's role as the adopted heiress?

His grandfather, the man who had always been distant to him, and who he knew little about? He didn't even know if his grandfather knew about magecraft, or how much of his faculties the old man retained.

Or would he have to swallow his pride and ask the Second Owner of the land for a favor? He didn't want to ask the _replacement_'s sister for anything, as it would tantamount to admitting he was weak, that not only was he a failure as a magus, but his family could offer no aid – that the Tohsaka might as well come in and take over.

Then again…what did he care? Besides, it was true enough – the Matou heiress was a Tohsaka, because the Matou family had done the Tohsaka a favor by adopting her. Looked at it that way, the Tohsaka owed the Matou a favor.

He didn't quite know what to do, what to choose, as he stared down at the parchments.

He'd sleep on it - perhaps he'd have figured something out by morning.

* * *

><p>AN: Welcome to Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone, an AU fusion blending the Nasuverse with Harry Potter. Yes, Harry Potter exists in this world, as does the Potterverse style of witchcraft – it is a little known a derivative of Nasuverse style Witchcraft (and part of what is referred to in the Nasuverse as "Black Magic"). Of course, since these practitioners and practices are limited by nature and can never reach the Root, no matter how powerful they are in their limited scope, the Association doesn't care much for them, nor do most of them even know of the Association, as these practitioners are mostly inward facing, becoming more and more secluded. In essence, the Wizarding World is a society that embodies as a whole what the Ladies of Eternity once did – the past hiding in the present unchanging.


	2. Close Encounters of the Wormish Kind

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2.<strong> _Close Encounters of the Wormish Kind_

After a night of fitful sleep interrupted with nightmares of being torn apart by worms, the young master of the Matou (or so he liked to believe himself) had come to a conclusion about the previous day's dilemma. While there was little he knew about the man he called Grandfather, perhaps the man would have a familiar he could post a letter with.

…a familiar that wasn't a worm, or worm shaped.

Because now that he thought about it, didn't owls eat worms? He supposed a normal owl wouldn't dare, but these were _magical_ owls.

…magical owls that had somehow tracked him across half the world, no less. That still bothered him, since it meant he had somehow been marked when he was born and that his family either didn't have the skill at magecraft to sense it or just didn't care enough about him to check.

He didn't know which one bothered him more, but there it was: the fact that to his family, he had always been useless.

Well, the letter he held in his hands would change that. Hopefully.

Still, he knew that what he was asking wasn't as simple as borrowing a familiar to post a letter. And that was the rub.

That was why he had ultimately decided against asking the Second Owner for assistance: even if she had agreed to do him a favor, he was sure that that consulting an outsider about a family's magecraft – even if witchcraft wasn't it per se – constituted a taboo. Which would mean that he would probably be removed from the family without any guarantee of continuing financial support.

…unfortunately, he had grown accustomed to the creature comforts the Matou wealth was able to secure, so that wasn't an option. And he strongly suspected that, as with the Association – or really, any alternative educational facility, there would be an enrollment fee.

Probably payable in precious metals or gemstones, given their universal value. Which meant he had to go to someone who knew about money and magecraft.

And since his father was a worthless, depressed drunk who cared nothing for his own flesh and blood, blaming Shinji for his own failures…his grandfather was the only real choice.

Shinji grimaced.

He knew next to nothing about his grandfather, except that the man presumably was a magus and in control of the Matou estate – and had probably been the one to throw his mother into the worm pit.

By troubling the man, was he to share his mother's fate?

After all, the practice of Witchcraft – though not true Witches - was something looked down upon by the Association. Would his Grandfather think that his acceptance to a school for Witchcraft was just proved that not only was he a drain on the family resources, he had a penchant for attracting attention from unwanted eyes?

He hoped not.

Matou Shinji did not want to die.

* * *

><p>He stood outside the forbidden door, hand on the handle, swallowing once as he tried to damp down the racing of his traitorous heart. This was it – the room where everything had changed. The room where he had discovered that <em>that girl<em> was his replacement, that he was beneath consideration, that his father had never loved him.

The room where his world had ended, leaving him wishing he had died.

Yet here he was again, of his own volition. Here he was, about to face down the Final Boss – or so he told himself in an attempt to quell his rising panic.

A more courageous man would have just opened the door and stepped through it, heedless of the danger, but he was not a courageous man.

He remembered the last time he had opened the door, as the assault on his senses was burned into is mind.

The putrid honey sweet stench of death and decay; a sound that was a cross between the worst wailing in the world and a half-eaten corpse being dragged across a stone floor; a darkness that seemed foul beyond measure, stained by death.

And the sight of everything half-melted. The stone, the meat the worms feasted on, everything. Everything except a young girl.

That…_Tohsaka_ girl.

He remembered what he wished – that the person in that place where time itself was rotten and meaningless as the grave was him. That amidst the stone walls fragile like rotten trees, amidst the roiling pit of worms, there he would be, the true heir of the Matou.

He bit down, tasting blood as he dispelled those memories, those wishes. Sakura would not be down there, for she had gone out with his father.

Besides, reminiscing about the past was not why he was here.

So he opened the forbidden door, and was met with...nothing.

No harsh rebuke.

No sounds other than the slithering, squelching, wailing of the worms.

No patriarch of the Matou family.

'_But how can this be?'_

Nothing but the sea of death.

Matou Shinji almost wanted to laugh - had he come this far for naught? No. It couldn't be. His grandfather was probably down there. Somewhere.

He had to be.

So Shinji grit his teeth and took a slow, hesitant step down into the room, the echo of his foot echoing like a gunshot in that chamber.

Still…nothing.

Swallowing, he continued down, down, down into the forbidden chamber, down onto the platform from which stairs descended to the pit itself.

"Grandfather?" he called out, not fully expecting a response. Yet… something answered.

A laugh. A grating, hollow laugh arising from the center of the decay – a misshapen lump in the middle of the writhing mass of worms.

Matou Shinji felt his skin crawling in revulsion as he bore witness to the sight before him

A great rotten _living _mass of worms, taking shape as a man. Worms crawling up misshapen feet, skin, ankles, burrowing into their host.

Not hundreds – thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. So many that if a human were swarmed by the black carpet, they would not last even a minute.

A human like his mother, with all her bones and meat taken by the worms and crumbled into a boneless skin.

But this…this _thing_ did not crumble. No. The more worms entered the mass, the more complete it became.

He understood in a flash – whatever was before him wasn't being consumed by the worms;

the worms swarming the room are the ones being eaten as the _thing_ laughed.

This thing that took the flesh and shape of Matou Zouken, the master of the basement.

The patriarch of the Matou family.

His…

"…grandfather."

And just like that, Shinji was paralyzed, frozen to the spot.

When he had last entered the room, he had just seen Zouken supervising Sakura being covered and infused with worms.

…he had not expected this.

Not expected that his grandfather was a _monster_. As he approached the door, he had told himself that this was like approaching the dungeon of a game, the lair of some final boss – he hadn't expected to be right.

He was going to die. He was going to be eaten. He was going to be torn to pieces.

He was going to…

"What do you want, boy?" a voice asked, as Matou Zouken finished taking form in the tainted darkness.

"I…"

"You have come to this place in spite of your powerlessness, in spite of a being a disgrace to the name of Makiri," the voice pressed, the presence of something rotten almost overwhelming. "You have nerve, boy."

Shinji wanted to retch, to run, to move, to cry out – but he could not.

He had been foolish.

He had been wrong.

Any moment now he would be devoured. Any moment he would eaten. Any moment…

"How unlike your good-for-nothing father," his grandfather spoke, the sheer disdain in his voice palpable. Shinji would have quaked if he could, but he could not, paralyzed like prey hypnotized by the gaze of a supreme predator – until all of a sudden he wasn't, the sudden relief as _something_ lifted from him nearly bringing him to his knees. "Speak quickly, or leave this place."

"…a message…" was what Shinji managed to get out.

"What?"

"I received a message, Grandfather," the boy continued, his words coming out in such a rush that they nearly stumbled over themselves. "A message from a school. For Witchcraft."

Wordlessly, the monster compelled him to continue.

"I've been accepted. To the school."

…

…

…

For close to a minute, the seething mass of worms grew still, the familiar, almost comforting rotten squelching, wails, rasps and slithers ceasing entirely, replaced with an uneasy, oppressive silence that was not just the absence of sound – but its opposite – anti-sound. Nothing could move. Nothing could speak. Nothing could breathe.

Nothing could think.

Not even Matou Zouken.

…

…

…

As a centuries old Archmagus, the great patriarch had borne witness – and participated – in the creation of wonders. He had created the Command Seal system to bind Heroic Spirits and their Noble Phantasms to the will of man. He had orchestrated the rise of corporate empires, learned magecrafts far beyond any except the Magicians themselves, gone further than any mortal in his quest for immortality as he had seen his bloodline diminish to nothingness.

He had thought he was beyond surprises.

"…what."

Evidently, he had been wrong.

"I-its true, Grandfather," the boy spoke, pro-offering the letter to the twisted mass of worms and flesh, who took it, the slightest sign of a frown on his weathered face. "An owl delivered it last night. To my room."

Now that he'd gotten the message out, Shinji felt a little stronger. Surely, his grandfather would believe him now that he…oh no. Had he actually handed over the letter? What if the magus just shredded it? What if….

But his thoughts were not the more troubled of the two individuals in the room, for Matou Zouken had been surprised.

And no magus – especially ancient archmagi - liked surprises.

The letter itself was a simple thing. A form letter of some kind, which suggested that the school in question routinely sent out notifications to applicants in this fashion. That it had been delivered to Shinji's room on the other hand – that was more troubling.

It meant that someone knew of his grandson – that someone was likely keeping track of his well-being, that a Witch had managed to set up a spell which had gone unnoticed in his house, under his very nose.

But the only person who might have been capable of such a thing, who had ever come into contact with Shinji was.

'…_his mother.'_

The useless woman, that scion of a third-rate magus, who he had thrown to the worms after she had failed to produce a magus child. After all, he had arranged for his worthless son to marry her due to her inheritor trait, so that was left of the Makiri bloodline might be preserved, but she had failed even to breed an heir.

Perhaps she had not been as talentless as he imagined.

This…was unexpected. Though what was even more so was that this missive had come from a school in Britain, instead of one of somewhere closer. One of the small institutes had become familiar with through his dealings which trained students in Black Magic, like the Koldovstoretz School in Russia, or Mahoutokoro in Japan.

...he would have to look into this, contact some old associates.

"This…is pathetic," the master of worms spoke at last, looking at the missive as if it personally offended him. "You. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, reduced to attending a school of Witchcraft. Not the Association. Not Atlas. Not an institution of Sea of Estray. But a school for Witchcraft."

He laughed, a low grating sound reminiscent of bone scraping against bone.

Shinji paled even more than before, as the monster's _presence_ grew and grew, that terrible laugh echoing from the walls. Yet…had his grandfather said _attending?_ A small grain of hope rose in his chest. Perhaps…this was not the end? Perhaps…

"Still…this was more than what I have come to expect of you – and more than anything your disgrace of a father managed," the Archmagus continued, what passed for lips on that sunken face curling up into a twisted semblance of a smile. "And you have some sense of pride coming here, unlike your worthless uncle who tossed away his gift, only to come begging for power to save your…sister. Tell me this, do you wish to attend this…school?"

"Yes, grandfather," Shinji managed, hoping against hope that this meant Matou Zouken approved, even if in some small, twisted way. "If you will allow it," he added, knowing that here, in the heart of the worm master's sanctum, he was completely at the other being's mercy.

The Archmagus allowed the boy's words to hang in the air for a long, lingering moment. Long enough that most would lose their nerve and recant their words – but the boy did not, unflinchingly meeting his gaze.

In spite of himself, Matou Zouken was…impressed.

"I will do more than that, boy," Zouken answered at last, noting that the last of his grandson's strength almost left him as he answered in the affirmative. "I will arrange for your missive to be delivered, yes – but I will also grant you a boon."

"…what."

This time it was Shinji's turn to be surprised. This…monster, his grandfather was actually doing something for him?

"You are a disappointment. An embarrassment to any magus," the mass of worms noted coldly. "But you are no longer a disgrace, as was your father. And as the last child of Makiri, some small help is not…unwarranted."

Shinji swallowed, not knowing what to expect.

"I believe it is traditional for those who have come of age to be given a mystic code, yes?" Zouken continued, glancing to the supply list. "And you require a wand, do you not?"

Shinji nodded wordlessly.

"Then I will make arrangements for one to be crafted for you," the Archmagus noted. "Something you may hold with pride as the last of the Makiri, should you desire."

"I…thank you, grandfather. That is more than I dared to ask," was all that Shinji could really say to that, as the master of worms returned to the center of the pit, his form melting away as the worms roiled under him, becoming incoherent.

"And more than one should expect," the worms rumbled and rasped and whispered, as the form of Matou Zouken returned to a seething sea of flesh-eating familiars. "But should you wish to accept my gift, I will make arrangements for a chaperone of sorts as well. Should you not, well, I will know when you provide me your reply to the Hogwarts missive."

"I…understand, grandfather" the boy answered, controlling his voice with last shreds of willpower he had.

"Good," the sea of decay almost hissed. "Now get out."

Shinji all but bolted from the room.


	3. Mahoutokoro

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3.<strong> _Mahoutokoro_

Matou Shinji stifled a yawn as he watched the shadowed lands of the Kansai region flicker past the windows of the express train he was on, blinking back fatigue as he tried to drink in the unfamiliar sights of the cultural and historical heart of Japan. He was lucky, he knew. His soon-to-be-former classmates would not get a chance to see the former capital for 3 years yet, and he was to get a personal tour from someone his grandfather had grudgingly acknowledged as an expert.

The fact that this particular trip was not a pleasure jaunt but an excursion to purchase supplies he needed for his upcoming journey to the west, and that he'd probably grow distant from his classmates in time was irrelevant.

Looking around and seeing no one else in the car, he sighed as he thought back to the terrifying encounter with the…creature…that was apparently his grandfather, a memory that had made sleep fleeting that night, with what few snatches he managed to cling to filled with that harsh, grating laughter.

…and yet his grandfather had approved of him, acknowledged him as not being a disgrace for the first time – the only person of his blood to have ever done so. Monster or not, didn't that mean something?

Since he couldn't sleep well, he'd written out the reply to the Hogwarts letter in rather rusty English, accepting the offer of admission to the School – but declining the offer of a chaperone. The master of worms has implied that involving an outsider would mean giving up Zouken's offer of a wand and family support, and that was not acceptable to Shinji – after getting some semblance of approval, he wasn't about to toss it away.

Besides, if his grandfather was offering to have a wand crafted especially for him, it could be assumed that the resultant mystic code was going to be more potent than something made with more…conventional materials.

…or so he hoped as he eyed the parcel on his lap: a glass box wrapped in a layer of thick black wax paper, with his letter sitting on top of it.

He wasn't sure how comfortable he was with the core of his wand being made of what his grandfather had referred to as a specially modified Crest Worm, much like the ones in his adopted sister.

…in an odd, twisted way, didn't that mark him as her equal?

Matou Shinji smiled at that thought. Him. The equal of the Matou heiress – didn't that basically make him the heir to the Matou line? Maybe? If you didn't look too closely at it?

His eyes flicked to his reply to the letter, sitting on top of the case. Matou Zouken had mentioned that his chaperone would arrange for the reply to be sent through one of the services in the community surrounding _Mahoutokoro_, the Japanese institute for this style of Witchcraft. Or at least Black Magic of some kind.

This made him wonder who his chaperone would be. He didn't know any proper Witches – their kind was rare as far as he knew, though they did have a chance of arising in a heretofore thoroughly unmagical bloodline…just as magical bloodlines could die off. He wondered for a moment if this was some cruel trick the world liked to play sometimes, reshuffling who was privileged enough to access magecraft – or rather, if this was the Counter Force's approach to keep magi from reaching the Origin.

After all, if their research was cut short, they would never have the chance, and yet the amount of practitioners would remain the same.

…not that the thought bore much thinking about, even if it would make sense for the World not to want another monster like grandfather afoot, since the Einzbern, monsters in their own right, remained.

And so he turned to watch the scenery as it passed by, lulling him into a pleasant daze.

* * *

><p>Soon enough, the train arrived at Kyoto station, with Shinji picking up his parcel, disembarking from the train – and stumbling to a halt as soon as he reached the bustling main terminal.<p>

'_So many people…'_

More than he'd ever had to deal with back in Fuyuki, sleepy little town that it was. This, on the other hand…this was the second-largest train station in all of Japan, with a shopping mall, hotel, movie theater, Isetan department store, and several local government facilities all under one fifteen-story roof. He hadn't been here since he was a child, and then, he didn't remember what he thought about it, except how big it was, how small he was in comparison – but now, taking it all in…

"Matou, what does such a view remind you of?"

A sudden question from behind him pulled Matou Shinji back to reality, and he turned to see a woman standing there, her figure like a mirage in the morning light. She seemed to be in her late twenties, with red hair pulled into a short ponytail, tight black pants, a white shirt that almost glowed in the light, and an orange jacket draped over her arm.

'_Is this…the chaperone?'_

She looked almost like what he thought an office lady might – except for her eyes – a dull red like drying blood. That...wasn't normal…

"Something…big?" Shinji hazarded, only to swallow as he received a glare in return.

"Not a very shrewd remark, Matou."

A cold response. Well, perhaps honesty might help…

"It's a little overwhelming, all the people here. More than I thought could fit in one place," Shinji replied after a few moments. "If I wasn't standing here, I'm not sure I would think it is real."

The woman nodded in agreement, though her eyes did not leave the young boy.

"Indeed, there is a danger from being too separated from the world," she continued, appraising the boy and what he carried with those dull, dull eyes. "People can only understand and feel safe around things close to them. Otherwise, even if one knew how many people pass through this station, how many trains come into this place, how many shops and destinations there were, it is only information, right? That is the danger of being far…"

Shinji could only nod at this, as it was true enough, and he felt as if it would be dangerous to interrupt. This woman didn't feel monstrous in the same way as his grandfather, but there was something about her that was causing alarms to sound in his head.

"For us, the world is only something we can feel ourselves. The boundaries between cities, countries, and the world can only be unconsciously recognized by our brains, and we ourselves cannot feel them unless we actually go to those," she monologued, and Shinji…understood. It was what he'd been thinking about, even if said much more eloquently. "No matter how hard you try, you cannot feel that anything is more real than what is around you. Humans are made to live in a box, so when one's mental vision surpasses that certain boundary, one becomes not so much human as a monster. Hypnos, that is, "illusion", turns into Thanatos - death."

Shinji swallowed, very uncomfortable with the direction the woman's words were heading in.

"Is that not so, Matou Shinji?"

And then she addressed him by name, confirming his suspicions. This must be the chaperone if she knew his name, but…her words were putting him on edge. He felt odd, like some impulse was rising, some impulse to flee and return to the world he knew, before everything he knew was proved worthless.

"Yes," was all he could say by way of answer, even as he strove not to tremble – not to flee. He had held his ground before Zouken. He could do no less here.

The woman laughed at his simple reply, her gaze leaving him at last as she filched a cigarette from some pocket of hers and lit it, taking a satisfied draw.

"Aozaki," she said brusquely, by way of introduction.

Aozaki.

…_shit. _

He knew that name.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

Any magus worth anything knew that name.

The name of a True Magician, a true Wizard, who went and did as she pleased because none could stop her. One of the most powerful individuals in the entire world was standing before him. One of the greatest monsters, more powerful than any archmagus or worm master. A being who was no mere mage or monster could ever hope to match.

Suddenly, Matou Zouken did not seem so scary by comparison.

Not in light of a certainty that had seared itself onto his mind.

…_I'm going to die._

She exhaled, the smoke she blew out mixing with the white sunlight.

"Blue…" Shinji whispered – only to freeze as the woman frowned, her glare returning in full force at the vaguest mention of that title.

"Wrong Aozaki," she noted, as Shinji found himself rooted to the spot by killing intent so strong he was sure he would croak on the spot.

He could do nothing, nothing but stare at the face of what would undoubtedly be his killer. In that moment, the world had shrunk down from the station to just…_her._

There was little human emotion in those red eyes. Even the face had smoothed to complete non-expression, a blank mask more frightening than anything he'd ever known in his short life.

"I... don't want to... die..." he forced out, his words directed not at Aozaki Touko, the puppetmaster, but rather at the rapidly impending specter of death.

Was this it? Was this how his story ended? Was this—

And then the moment passed, with the weight of the killing intent lifting from him. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees, but he knew he couldn't. He couldn't let his grandfather's package be destroyed, after all, not after he'd come so far.

He was a Makiri. He would be strong.

Even in the face of death.

The woman took a long drag on her cigarette and looked at him consideringly, before shaking his head dismissively.

"Don't mention that name again, and I won't have to kill you," the woman replied with utter seriousness, slipping on a pair of slim spectacles as her demeanor changed to something less…cruel. "Well then, I believe you needed supplies for school, yes? Let's be off."

* * *

><p>Dumbly, Shinji followed in his chaperone's wake, unable to say much after the initial half-exchange they'd had. He got the impression that she didn't really like the job of showing him around, and had no desire to talk to him more than was necessary.<p>

Which was fine, as he didn't think he could handle another exchange like earlier – and he found that he could learn a great deal from watching her move and listening to her grumbling.

For instance, his chaperone apparently was very familiar with _Mahoutokoro _and the community surrounding it –the access point of which was the immense weeping cherry tree in the middle of Maruyama Park.

The sheer audacity of that stunned him – Maruyama Park was the oldest and most trafficked park in all of Kyoto (most famous for its grove of 680 cherry trees), and the massive weeping tree, the Hitoe Shiro Higan Shidare Sakura was recognized as a natural monument of Japan, which tourists flocked to see.

…and the Japanese Witchcraft community had turned this into their main access point? Just how did they get away with that?

From what he knew of magi, they took pains to conceal themselves, operating mostly in the mundane world, but this…

…and then his thoughts died away completely as Touko tapped a wand onto one of the tree's knots, the wood coming to life, _shifting_ somehow, to become a portal. A one way mirror, through which the red-haired woman stepped, its surface rippling as she passed through it.

Shinji just followed, stepping through the mirror – and standing stock still at what he saw, his jaw falling open in amazement.

He stood on a ledge overlooking a subterranean cavern, with a whole new world spread out before him. This was…this was a hidden underground city, a bustling place of magic and mystery. He could feel it in the air, the buzz of prana washing against his skin like the light somehow filtering through from above.

Down below, he could see witches zooming by on brooms, merchants on flying carpets, onmyodou familiars and wondrous beasts coming through what seemed like portals from various parts of the world.

He'd thought Kyoto station was something, but this…how was something like this possible? This…a city hidden from sight? Where magecraft, witchcraft, who knows what was practiced openly? How had no one detected it?

"Because this geofront is shielded by incredibly complex bounded fields established in the Age of Gods," came the reply to his unasked question. "Mahoutokoro – which as you know, means simply the place of magic."

Mesmerized, he stepped closer to the edge, wondering what would happen if he fell to that place kilometers below.

"In the ancient times, the sky was considered to be another world, and man's dream was to fly," she continued, even as he took another to step. "Without the comfort of technology, an overlooking view might drive one mad. It won't be a problem if you have a firm place to stand on. You'll be back to normal when you get back on the ground."

Down there. Down onto that city of life. Down.

"Don't actually jump, Matou."

Shinji was broken from his trance by those words. Had he been thinking of jumping? Of just stepping from the ledge and trusting magic? To go _there_ – oh. Distance. The danger of far. She'd warned him, if in the most roundabout way possible.

"Do you come here often?" he managed, his eyes catching at the sight of an immense tree in the very heart of the city. Almost…a world tree?

"Heh. While I usually order what I want from the magical world's equivalent of Amazon, sometimes, the best deals can be found right from the supplier," the Aozaki replied, amused by the boy's reaction. It wasn't new to her – she'd seen others with exactly the same entrancement – but she supposed this place could be somewhat overwhelming as well.

"Huh."

That was new to him. He didn't know one could order magical materials on the internet – the thought had never even occurred to him.

"Huh, indeed," Aozaki Touko said, not unkindly, though she still eyed his package oddly. "Come, let's get you your supplies – and get your letter sent off, eh?"

"Ah right," Shinji answered softly after a moment, tearing his eyes away from the vista below him. "Lead on."


	4. The City Time Forgot

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4.<strong> _The City Time Forgot_

The quiet fall of footsteps marked the passage of two travelers along a winding staircase carved into the cliff face, its worn, smooth steps hinting at its age. This was the traditional path that taken by those who came to _Mahoutokoro_ for the first time, a journey in itself which allowed one to reflect upon the vista below and how different this place was from the world above.

The sounds of Kyoto, of the modern world, had faded away, leaving behind only the sound of the wind and those who breathed it in. Around him, Shinji could feel trickles of prana, streams of it, almost…dancing as it played over him, touched him, reached into his very soul – and welcomed him.

"It feels odd, doesn't it, Matou?" his companion noted, though she seemed to be used to this. She probably was too, given that she had been familiar with everything else along the route. "After all, that Tree isn't shy about getting a sense of all those who come to this place."

Shinji blinked.

"A tree is…?"

"Yeah," the magus affirmed, her lips curling into a smile Shinji could not interpret. "People labor under the misconception that trees and other plants cannot understand the world around them, that they harbor no curiosity, but in this case and a few others, they would be wrong."

"…others?"

"The Seventh of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors, the Forest of Einnashe," Aozaki Touko replied, her expression unchanging as she casually dropped the name of one of the vampiric creatures that stood as the elites among their kind. "A vampiric forest that has created its own reality marble, appearing every fifty years with a single will and purpose – to seek out the living and drain them dry. A forest said to bear a fruit that grants immortality."

'_Immortality? Then why hasn't anyone tried to hunt it? Maybe the Queen of the Clock Tower…'_

"Ahaha, don't set your sights on something like that fruit," the redheaded woman noted, her smile once again almost cruel. "Every being who has gone after it has died, be they of the Church, the Association or some other organization entirely. You'd probably need something like those Mystic Eyes that are only legends."

"What Mystic Eyes…?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Matou."

Shinji fell silent then, their passage marked only by the hypnotic rhythm of their steps as they made their way downwards. It would take some time, but he had no current magical abilities that would allow him to get to the city any faster - and he couldn't access the area's portal system without being offering some of his blood to what he thought of as the World Tree.

So walking it would be. At least it gave him more time to look – and marvel – at the city below, the clouds – _clouds? Was this place tall enough for have its own weather? –_and to listen to his chaperone's ramblings, which, implied insults aside, actually contained more useful – and practical - information than anyone had bothered to teach him.

A few details about Magical Foundations, Black Magic – under which Witchcraft was categorized, a brief comparison of the efficiency of various methods of broom transport (which he had thought of as ridiculous prior to today, but apparently merited its own branch of study – which Touko herself was one of the leading experts in), and even Dead Apostles and Phantasmal Creatures.

Somehow though, between her anecdotes of her travels, observations on the world, and philosophy, he got the impression that she was…well, a fairly lonely person, without many friends – not unlike him. He knew better than to say this to her face – or to ask about the circumstances that had made her his chaperone instead of doing research at the Association, but the realization startled him all the same.

* * *

><p>The better part of an hour later, the two had finally finished descending the long series of stairs to the cavern floor and were now sharing a well-worn path with the most recent creatures to come through one of the boundary portals: a giant, white-furred spider with a single parcel strapped to its back, plodding leisurely along the bone-white road towards the city in the distance and a—<p>

_Whump!_

"…is that a _dragon_?!" Shinji burst out, his body tensing to run as his eyes flicked to the massive winged _reptilian_ form that had just set down beside him, its leathery wings, hungry yellow eyes, and cruelly spiked tail striking terror into his heart.

Touko, for her part, just glanced at it and pulled something out of her coat. Casually, she reached out her hand towards the creature's nose, using the snort of flame it produced to light her cigarette.

"Wyvern, actually, though some of those in the Western schools of Witchcraft have been known to call them Dragons," she replied after a long, drawn out drag – and a puff of smoke that received a grunt of approval from the now-identified wyvern, before it took off for a portal in the distance with a fierce beat of its wings. Apparently, mahoutokoro was merely a waypoint to its final destination. "I suppose it's hard to blame them, as it would still take 20 or so wand-witches to bring one down, but the last true Dragons linger in the east. These share their form, but lack their power."

She seemed to shrug.

"In the West, where the Association rules, those who study witchcraft tend to be isolated from the rest of the moonlit world, so there is much they have forgotten and much they do not know. Here in the East, where they find willing partners in practitioners of _Onmyoudou_, they are tied into the larger magical community."

Left unspoken was an implication that Shinji picked up on – that the creation of something like Mahoutokoro would have been impossible without the blending of the different mystic arts. It made him wonder what each was capable of – he was familiar enough with what the Matou magecraft could do in theory, but had never had a chance to study the dominant magical tradition of Japan.

Now that he looked upon the tradition's central spot, he had to admit what it could accomplish was…_impressive_.

"The Association likes to call Japan a backwater because its influence isn't as strong here," the red-haired magus continued, losing her smile as she shook her head. She paused for a few moments, as if not certain whether to continue, but… "But then, even the Tower is barbaric in its own way."

Shinji had nothing to say to that, though if the Association were filled with monsters like his grandfather and…this woman, he supposed she had a point.

* * *

><p>After the encounter with the wyvern, they continued on in silence, with Shinji noting how they passed – and were passed by – creatures and cargos of all sorts, with the heady scents of perfumes, potions, and foreign foods all mixing together. Some seemed more mundane, like the sloths or black panthers which ambled along disdainfully as if the road belonged to them; some he had half expected – like camels with heavy bales and pots and jars, who seemed decidedly nervous in the presence of so much wildlife; and some were frankly unnerving, like the few flightless drakes hauling wagon loads of what seemed like rubble, strange black horses with draconic faces and leathery wings passing from one portal to the next, and the giant spider, which seemed almost amused as it matched the travelers' speed.<p>

Apparently, it wasn't in much of a hurry.

…and hopefully it was friendly, given that its claws and fangs seemed very, very sharp, and measured about a meter long. Each.

Shinji knew that after the encounter with the Wyvern, the presence of a mere spider shouldn't shake him, but…the Wyvern had just taken off. The spider seemed almost curious…

But he said nothing, just continuing to observe as they passed through the belt of green surrounding the city, the forest where so many magical creatures took refuge. One by one, he began to see buildings rise from the loam – some of alabaster bone white brick, some of twisted growths of wood that seemed to have sprouted, some designed in the traditional Japanese style (which grew more common the closer one came to the city), and—

The spider suddenly jerked and turned, skittering with unexpected speed off the road, its powerful frame propelling it forwards towards what looked like a vast pile of rubble – what Shinji could only think must be the remnants of some shop or other. With practiced ease, it clambered onto the pile, shaking itself free of the dust of the road as it reached the very top – and disappeared.

"…what just…"

"Oh, that was just Tharsis making a delivery," his magus companion said, her footsteps halting as she took another long, long drag of her cigarette. "Though Toroi-kun certainly has strange tastes in landscape decoration."

She was silent for a heartbeat, as if weighing something in her head.

"Would you like to visit, Matou?"

"Visit?" Shinji echoed, even as he looked at what he had dismissed as a pile of rubble – debris that wouldn't look out of place in a warzone. Pieces of brick, dust, stone, wood and more were strewn about – it was like a giant had sat on a house and so thoroughly crushed it that rebuilding was impossible. At first glance, it looked as if the ruin had been picked clean, leaving behind only the rusting wreckage of what had once been something more.

Though now that he looked closer…

'_The Dust Pile.'_

There was a small, brass sign that hung askew over a half-hidden tunnel, through which he could see only yawning darkness.

'_Is that…the door?'_

He supposed that someone adept at bounded fields might well disguise a door in such a way. Somehow, though, he didn't get the impression that the owner of the place welcomed company…

"The old worm sent a bit more money for your expenses than your required equipment will cost, even if you get everything new," the redhead said, eying the place with a critical eye. "And while Toroi-kun may have odd tastes in landscape decoration, his…establishment does have a decent selection of goods."

Shinji blinked, wondering what a shop called _The Dust Pile _could possibly have to offer, but didn't refuse. Tharsis, the magus had said, naming the spider that had somehow entered the place, though there was no obvious portal for it at ground level.

'_Bounded field concealing a door? Would be the most obvious approach?'_

But a blinding white flash cut off his train of thought, followed closely by a lingering, echoing _booming. _

And then, in what was about the last thing he'd expect of an underground city, drops of water began to fall from the sky.

In short, it began to rain, and that, more than anything else, helped to make up his mind.

"Ok, let's go."

* * *

><p>…unsurprisingly, given everything else he'd come to see, the name of the establishment was quite deceptive. As was the place's outer appearance, really.<p>

On entering the shop – stooping down so that he wouldn't hit his head on the overhanging rubble, he was relieved to find it was dry and warm. He stepped more fully into the shop, his eyes casually sweeping his surroundings – and then jerking back as he froze and _stared._

…this was no bombed out pile of rubble.

This was a bookstore, perhaps the grandest he'd ever seen in his life, and here he stood in the entrance hall – a vaulted place full of books but with soaring high windows that were dark and flecked with rain.

As one who had aspired to learn the Matou craft through study alone, spending more hours of his life than he would admit in the family library, he would have known this place for what it was even with his eyes shut. After all, a place that just anyone could walk into with so many texts couldn't be a library.

Well, not a mage's library.

The hush of it was enough; the smell, the heavy spicy aroma of slowly, imperceptibly decomposing leather and paper, of hundreds of tons of dry ink.

Not a centimeter went unused – the walls themselves were bookshelves, and every meter of every shelf was full. Creamy spines, leather spines, knobby and ribbed spines, jacketed and bare, gilded and plain, blank spines and spines crammed with text and ornament. Some were as thin as magazines, some were wider than they were tall.

In three or four places, perhaps, a book had been taken down and the one next to it was left slightly aslant, leaning its head against its fellow, as if in silent mourning for its neighbor.

But even the beams and buttresses further into the store – which seemed almost _alive _- had been fitted with shelves – rows and arches and fans of books.

He didn't recognize the titles of most of the tomes here, could not even read most of the languages, but somehow it didn't matter. Here, in the last place he'd expected, he felt at home.

Hesitantly, reverently, Matou Shinji took a step forward, thinking that he could almost feel the age of this place, the sheer weight of knowledge gathered in one room. At the edge of his consciousness, he could almost hear whispers from all around him. He couldn't quite make out the words, but maybe if he listened closer, concentrated more closely he—

"I wouldn't listen too closely if I were you," a voice broke in. Dressed in a double-breasted navy blue dress jacket and slacks reminiscent of the centuries-old uniform of some European power, the speaker was a small fellow who seemed much too young to be in a place like this. To Shinji's eyes, he barely seemed out of his teens, with the youth's green-blue eyes shaped like those of a cat, mop of unruly blond hair, and face set in a mask of annoyance not doing anything to counter that effect. "Words have power, you know. And sometimes, if you hear their siren song and seek them before you are ready – they'll consume you."

"Toroi-kun, don't go scaring the boy," Aozaki Touko interrupted, making her presence known as she stepped fully into the store, now clad in her orange trenchcoat. "Why, he was surprised enough seeing Tharsis on the road."

"Oh, it's you," the shopkeeper said tonelessly, his expression going perfectly slack. "What do you want, Aozaki?"

"Any luck on finding that first edition of Burroughs' _Princess of Mars_?" the magus countered, a cruel little smile stealing over her lips. "As I recall, it was the only book that ever eluded you."

The shopkeeper's face soured.

"No. And certainly not one that was signed," he all but spat. "What use is it, gathering so much power, so much knowledge, if I can't get the one book I…" He broke off, looking at Touko appraisingly, as if hoping – but too afraid to hope. "Have you…have you found one?"

His words came out in a hush as he swallowed nervously.

"No."

"I see," the shopkeeper replied flatly. "You must have been too busy looking for other junk to buy."

"Ara, Surein Toroi-kun, I don't judge your hobbies, and you don't judge mine."

"…fine," the youth grumbled, shaking off the disappointment as if he'd done so many times over. "So how can I help you, Aozaki? Or do you want something for the boy? Granted, having a young plaything is something I expect more from—"

"Don't. Finish. That. Sentence," Touko warned, as the temperature in the room seemed to drop like a rock. Indeed, Shinji could see frost beginning to form—

"Enough. Please, the books!" the shopkeeper pleaded, his expression panicked as he threw up his hands in surrender. "Sorry, forgot that was a touchy subject. I don't spend much time around people."

"Obviously," the sister to the True Magician acknowledged coldly, holding him in place for a moment more with her stare, before letting him go. "Don't forget again."

"…ah, of course," the shopkeeper said, carefully schooling his features back to neutrality as he turned to Shinji. "So what can I do for you, young master?"

"I believe Matou would be interested in a book."

"…I doubted it would be otherwise, but can you be more specific?"

The youth who apparently was the "Toroi-kun" Touko had mentioned gestured at the books all around them. Somehow, Shinji didn't think he was the type who liked to be teased – and that just made it more fun for his chaperone.

Scary woman, that.

"Why don't you look him over and see what you think might be best?" the Aokzai replied, with Shinji not quite liking the sound of that.

…an intuition that did not prove to be wrong as the youth moved closer, his eyes taking on an unearthly shade of blue.

"What the— "

"Don't be alarmed, Matou," his chaperone commented, her voice frank and reassuring in its calmness. "Toroi-kun is simply gauging your potential so he can make recommendations. This is, after all, his shop."

"Gauging my potential?" Shinji echoed, still fairly uncomfortable as the youth studied him as if he were a specimen in a laboratory.

"Don't fidget. That makes it harder," the shopkeeper murmured, his voice taking on a somewhat sibilant hiss as his examination continued.

"His Eyes allow him to see the unseen – in this case, the potential one has to actualize mysteries of the world, and the channels they have available."

"Magus lineage – but no circuits? Curious," the blond muttered, frowning as he brought a finger to the corner of his eyes. "But…ah. Something like a magic core. Largely undeveloped. And traces of—hmm. Witchcraft, then." He met Shinji's eyes for a second, expression curious. "Mahoutokoro?"

"No," Shinji replied nervously, licking his suddenly dry lips. "Hogwarts."

"…I see," was all the youth said. "First year, then?"

Shinji could only nod.

That seemed to conclude the examination, as Toroi Surein straightened, his eyes dulling back to their more mundane blue-green. With a crook of his finger, he beckoned the boy to follow, and Shinji complied.

This was the other's domain, after all, and to refuse a magus in his workshop was akin to a declaration of war – that much he had learned. He didn't know what the relationship was between the shopkeeper and his chaperone was, but even if the rules didn't quite apply to them, they would to him, since he was a stranger here.

One thing was sure – now that he had come here, seen the wonders that magic could accomplish, he would do anything to keep it.

Now in his element, the proprietor of the shop moved between the shelves with ease, selecting a tome from one shelf, another from one of the buttresses, and summoning two to his hands in a casual display of power that left Shinji envious as he moved to the counter.

"After what I've seen of you, these four seem most appropriate," the blond said quietly, placing the titles on the table and spreading them out so Shinji could see each one.

The first was a thick, squat volume bound in rough black leather, with _Occlumency: The Art of Memory and Mind_ inscribed on the spine in thin silver lettering.

"Your heritage is that of a magus', so you know the value of secrets," the blond noted, tapping the book's cover. "But the defenses of your mind are as of yet undeveloped, and a skilled…what do they call them…legilimens could see into your thoughts. Still, they're rare enough that I cannot say this is your only option. Simply a wise one."

The second, _A Practical Primer to Elemental Spells, _was a slim plum-colored volume bound in velvet, with the title embossed in gold.

"Of course, given that you will be studying Witchcraft and Black Magic, perhaps you may be more interested in learning spells. In any foundation, knowing the power of the elements can be quite useful, and this does contain a basic introduction to runecraft, so you may not always need your wand."

The third looked…blank. A featureless black cover. Cream coloured pages that seemed untouched. Shinji looked between the book and the shopkeeper, wondering if there had been some mistake, until the shopkeeper muttered _Aparecium tessera Aseira_ and the title appeared.

'_Becoming a Shadow: The Arte of Concealment and Misdirection'_

"Now this is a volume I think you would enjoy," Surein related almost conspiratorially. "How to conceal not only writing, but yourself – and how to defeat the invisibility of others. How to be unheard, unseen, and to know what lies around you. Alas, it is a more…advanced tome, than the others, but even so…"

And then he set down the last book, a cream-colored volume plainer than all the rest – a paperback, even. Yet it was this book, with its simple black ink that Shinji was most drawn to, as there was power in the tome.

_Of Ofuda and Origami: Principles of Onmyoudou for Witches_.

Even Shinji, inexperienced as he was, could feel a subtle power in the paper and ink, like knowledge itself begging to be read, to be released.

"Now this…this so far is the only one of its kind - a proof copy of a book soon to be published," Surein noted, his fingers caressing the cover almost…lovingly. "One of mine, in fact. How something so common as paper and ink can be used for western spells, how shikigami can be made, wards, and more, simplified, of course. Few have the aptitude for it, and there is much you would need to unlearn before you can master it, but…perhaps you will manage. Now then, young master, choose."

The four books were spread before Shinji – each of them tempting him beyond measure, beyond words themselves. To protect his mind, to gain power, to become a shadow – all these were potent, potent things, but…he recalled what Touko had said about practitioners in the west having forgotten much, implying that only with outside knowledge could something as magnificent as this place be built.

And if there was anything Matou Shinji desired, it was to become great. To be the very best, surpassing even the legends among magi.

"This one," he heard himself saying, as his hand moved towards the last volume – the one on _Onmyoudou. _"Please."

Toroi Surein smiled faintly at that, seeming genuinely happy for the first time since Shinji and Touko had walked into his shop.

"I thought you might choose that," the youth noted, dismissing the other volumes to their designated spots on the shelves with a wave of his hand, as he took thick brown wrapping paper and lovingly wrapped up the Onmyoudou book. Then, he turned to Shinji's chaperone, who had been watching all this with amusement. "There is of course, the matter of payment…"

He let his words hang, given that Aozaki Touko was so often short on money, but his eyes bulged as she withdrew a small orb glowing with inner power from her coat and tossed it over to him.

In his shock, he barely managed to catch it with his free hand.

"I assume you have change?" she asked drily, knowing full well that he did.

He studied it for a second, making sure it was genuine – something of a formality when you were dealing with Aozaki Touko, since she had to be good for her purchases - and smiled as he felt the pulse of the power inside it.

"I assume you want that in the usual currency used by _Mahoutokoro?"_

A simple nod was all the answer he got, and so he went to the old, needlessly complicated register on the counter, slotting in the orb and placing the book on the scale, as a handful of small glowing beads were released into the change bowl.

The beads he placed in a small, moleskin bag, which he handed to the Aozaki magus, while the book he handed to Matou Shinji, who took it in his free hand.

"Thank you for patronizing _The Dust Pile_," he said brusquely, bowing just enough to not be considered rude. "Please, don't come again."

With that, he shuffled off, one of the bookshelves _swinging open_ for him_, _offering a glimpse of luxuriously appointed quarters behind them before it closed with a muffled boom.

"Well, Matou, that's our cue to go. Next stop, your wand."

* * *

><p>By the time they got outside, the rain had stopped, leaving behind the pleasant scent of <em>petrichor – <em>the scent of rain on dry earth. Fortunately, the road seemed to be enchanted to not become muddy or slick, which Shinji appreciated, as he now had something in each hand, neither of which he wanted to drop.

He'd had to hand his chaperone his reply to the Hogwarts letter, though thankfully she hadn't asked too many questions. As soon as he could though, he wanted to send that off – and get his wand, the proof that he was worth something after all.

…the minor thought that he wanted to be rid of the parcel from his grandfather was nowhere close to the front of his mind, though he did wonder what was in it.

It seemed they were soon to find out though, as they entered the city proper, with its streets lined with what seemed like giant cherry trees – though these were all dwarfed by the gargantuan specimen in the center.

They took one small detour at an Owlery, where the Hogwarts reply was sent off at last – much to Shinji's relief, and then proceeded without delay towards the central tree – the hub of the city.

As they progressed through Mahoutokoro, Shinji wondered if he had been thrown back in time – or into some fantasy world – so many of the buildings were built around or into trees, half-grown half-made. Traditional Japanese architecture blended with a Tolkeinesque sensibility, in a sense.

And yet so much of the familiar remained.

A busy market square, where vendors and suppliers without a shop of their own came to do business, purporting to have the freshest, most valuable ingredients from all around the world.

Streets and alleyways down which shops seemed to specialize in one art or discipline.

Restaurants offering exquisite and exotic cuisines – some of which even claimed to permanently increase one's strength or intelligence – for a price.

Even a gift shop for first time visitors and magical tourists.

It was all Shinji could do not to laugh at that last one, though he supposed it made sense, given the many foreigners he'd seen around, with blonde, red, even pink or violet hair. He hadn't known there were so many practitioners of the mystic arts in the world, and yet so many were gathered in this one place.

It was...humbling.

And he wanted nothing more to be one of them – to one day be the greatest of them.

Through seas of people, throngs of creatures, piles of merchandise they navigated, closer and close to _the _giant cherry tree, until at last they reached the beginnings of its roots and stopped.

Shinji was confused.

"Weren't we going to get a wand?" he asked, looking around at what seemed like emptiness, and recalling that they had passed a number of wand sellers in the city. Here, there was just the tree and its roots in the center of the city…

"Touch the root, Matou," was all his chaperone said, and so he did. Handing the Onmyoudou book over to the Aozaki, he knelt down and gingerly placed his palm on the root.

_Pain._

The world went white.

In that instant, fire burned, molten power surging through his veins and into his soul, filling him, every part of him, judging him – his past, his present, his future, looking into the very heart of his being, with nothing kept secret. His dreams, his fears, his worries, his hopes, every last thing was examined; every last thing was weighed.

He could feel it.

Years. Hundreds. Thousands of years. Whispers. Souls. Power. _Memories_.

Those who had once been.

Those who had tied themselves to this place.

Those who had found a place where they belonged.

And they…welcomed him among their number.

Asked him to join them, to give of himself that this place might linger for generations to come.

To this, Shinji could only nod.

'_Welcome, child,' _he thought he heard, before the pain withdrew, the fire ceased, the world returned – but not as it was.

Where there had been only empty space, he could now see old, old shops, grown from the tree itself, and familiars making their way into this holiest of holies. And in front of where he was kneeling, just off to the side, was a door, over which was inscribed the words "Root of the Sky."

"This is it," the Aozaki voiced. "The shop where your wand will be crafted."

Somewhat unsteadily, Shinji rose to his feet, noting that his chaperone had said nothing about this being a wand shop.

'_Does this shop sell more than wands then?'_

And indeed they did, or so it seemed as he entered the door – stooping again – and was surrounded by Mystic Codes, ofuda, and more. There were no books, certainly, but almost any other kind of thaumaturgical paraphernalia – Eastern or Western - could be found here.

Shinji was getting the sense that this might not be where he wanted to pick up his other equipment, as this place seemed…out of his price range.

"Welcome to the _Root of the Sky,_" a cheery voice greeted from behind the counter. Following it, Shinji blinked as he saw a girl dressed in the traditional attire of a shrine maiden: a long, red, slightly pleated skirt tied with a bow, a white haori and white ribbons in her hair.

The girl herself was about Touko's height, with long, loose brown-black hair and eyes the color of dried blood.

"Hijiri. Matsuo Hijiri," she said, by way of introduction. "I am the proprietor of this shop and the maiden who guards the Tree, the keeper of the boundary and ways."

"…any relation to Matsuo Bassho?" Shinji queried. He had to ask. After all, the work of the haiku master was well known around the world, and even he had read some of the man's travelogues.

"Descended from him, yes," the young woman acknowledged, an enigmatic smile adorning her face as her eyes noted the parcel he held. "Is there an item you desire?"

"Matou is here to have a custom-crafted wand," Aozaki Touko replied as she made her way through the door. "And hello, Hijiri."

"Back so soon, Touko?" the miko greeted half-chidingly. "I'm surprised to see you here after how the last item you bought. Did you come into a new bit of income?"

Touko for her part just gestured to the boy she was chaperoning.

"Ah, an escort mission," the shrine maiden noted with a quirky smile. "At least it isn't one where you have to defend a NPC. You do horribly at those."

"…point," Touko noted, walking up and placing the sack of glowing beads on the store counter. "Matou, your parcel."

Shinji did as directed, setting down the box with a heavy thud.

"Oho? Let us see what is inside then," the shrine maiden noted with a hint of amusement, delicate white fingers deftly unwrapping the box to expose – "Oh my."

—a blackened, immobile Crest Worm.

"This is certainly different than the usual ingredients I am given to craft with," she noted drily, eying the contents of the box as if it were a somewhat dangerous substance – which it well might be. "Kappa hair, wyvern heart-string, tengu feather I see much of. Even oni horn or whisker. But this…"

"You can do it though," Touko replied in much the same tone. "You've worked with more…interesting things."

"Well, yes. Let us find a wood that will work to pair this with then," the shrine maiden said quietly, motioning for the Matou boy to come closer and touch the box.

He didn't know what he expected – but it wasn't for her to cover his hand with hers. Smooth, warm, powerful, as reality fell away.

"_He seeks a wand, a path, a purpose  
><em>_Rotten root but strong wood  
><em>_A twin? No? Death? No. Ashes ashes, shall not be  
><em>_Understanding, no innocent  
><em>_Power. Thirst. Discovery.  
><em>_Birth and death, legacy  
><em>_Appearance and truth, sacrifice?  
><em>_Salvation or destruction?  
><em>_Ephemeral, the choice."_

…he didn't know how long he had been out, what he had been doing, or how long, only that he had lost himself somehow. What was it he wanted above all else? What was it he wanted to become?

"_Beginnings. Wood of the world?_

_Mahoutokoro? Ah…"_

And then everything came back in a rush, with Shinji flinching as reality came crashing down around him in its solidity, nearly stumbling back. He would have, too, if his chaperone had not steadied him.

What had just happened? The last thing he remembered was that the shopkeeper had touched him, and then…

He looked over at her to see her holding a small branch in her hands as she looked down at the inert worm in its glass container.

"Do you know, Matou Shinji, this was a piece of Mahoutokoro's great cherry tree – the one you touched earlier today?" Matsuo Hijiri murmured, her eyes shifting to study him intently, though her awareness seemed far away. "Between this and the core, you are destined for odd things. Things that will test you, shape you, and more. This core – the power of curses, of domination; this wood, ageless, with the recollections of thousands within it. Darkness to fight darkness. A potter. And a thief. Curious. But at least…you will not be ordinary."

Shinji could only swallow at those words, his heart beating rapidly in his chest at those words, words said in a terrible, terrible voice that spoke of finality, inevitability, and who knew what else.

What was she seeing?

What was his fate?

What was…

And then there was silence.

Shinji just stood there for some time, waiting for the shopkeeper to continue, but she did not. She took a few moments to gather herself, then nodded grimly.

"Come back in three hours, Matou Shinji, and not before," she said, taking the box and the branch both as she disappeared into the back of the shop. "Your wand will be ready then."

* * *

><p>AN: _Aparecium tessera _is a variant of the basic revealing charm which reverses the effect of concealing charms secured by passwords. In this case _Aseira _is the given password.


	5. Stranger from a Distant Land

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5.<strong> _Stranger from a Distant Land_

In future years, Matou Shinji would describe the three most memorable moments of his first visit to Mahoutokoro as his first glimpse of the city, the visit to _The_ _Dust Pile, _and the encounter with the miko who ran the _Root of the Sky_ and warded the city itself.

The rest was largely a blur, the hours spent waiting for his wand to be finished filled with retrieving the rest of the supplies on his Hogwarts list: books, school uniform, and the other miscellaneous goods that were required.

Despite the bookseller's unfriendly attitude, Shinji had been sorely tempted to return to the shop to buy the tome titled _Becoming a Shadow,_ as he could see how that the arts described in that book could be quite useful. The ability to hide things he did not want others to find – and to find things others wished to keep secret – was powerful, and personal invisibility – well, he could see any number of applications of that, especially if such a spell wasn't immediately detectable by those who could sense and use prana.

Given the condition of his remaining funds (which his chaperone had oh-so-helpfully informed him would be just enough to cover his required purchases – if he bought everything new, which she recommended), he had briefly entertained the notion of buying secondhand equipment so he could afford the tome.

Very briefly.

He'd quickly dismissed it as impractical; given that he was going to be a stranger in a strange land, first impressions mattered more. He'd seen it before when he'd studied abroad: people would judge him based on how he looked, how he presented himself, who he talked to – even if unjustifiably, as an exchange student would have little knowledge of local traditions or social structures.

And he'd seen too often how some _pitied_ foreigners, or gave them some aid just so they could make those around them believe they were wonderful people, as if they didn't calculate every advantage, didn't enjoy having a foreign conversation piece for their circle of friends.

It had happened to him before, and he hated it with a passion.

He couldn't stand pity, couldn't stand those who only helped others for their own benefit, using them for their own gain without even having the decency of being honest about it. No, they wanted to be seen as benefactors, as friends, or even as martyrs, an investment in social standing that could be cashed in for who knew what favors. Obligation, manipulation – oh, he understood these things himself, even used them, but at least he was honest about it.

That was simply the way of the world that the strong would always prey upon the weak. His first example of this, his grandfather, had demonstrated this in a somewhat more…literal method than was usual in polite society, but he as hardly alone in the practice.

Matou Shinji might be accused of being many things, but he wasn't blind, or naïve; he knew the only reason he was being aided by Matou Zouken was because the monster thought he might yet be of some use. That said, however, he was not foolish enough to think that turning down what assistance he received would be a good idea.

Why, if he'd had to pick up everything in Magical London, not knowing of the traditions of the world of witches, gaping and staring as he had done at Mahoutokoro, he would have been thought of an incompetent, half-barbaric foreigner.

An object of pity with _no magical parents left alive_, according to the letter_._

A charity case.

_Helpless._

Yes, helpless, a word he resolved never to be. Having been granted this opportunity, he was going to make the most of it, to become one of the _strong. _

Such was his resolve as he went through the motions of selecting his new supplies. There would be nothing but the finest for him: robes crafted of silk of giant spiders, enchanted to grow with the wearer (so long as the new owner infused it with a few drops of blood to "synchronize" their growth rates), custom fitted wyvern-skin gloves and boots, shiny new cauldrons, books in the most accurate Japanese translations, and other such.

After all, he was tired of being treated like a worm.

What he wanted…what he wanted was to be recognized as great, to have his name and face known and feared wherever he went, to walk the world, to learn the forbidden, to become a magus none would dare trifle with.

…someone much like Aozaki Touko, now that he thought about it.

He couldn't aspire to become a Magician - True Magic was out of the question and he knew it, no matter how ambitious he was. Nor did he want to become a monster living in a basement like his grandfather – Matou Zouken was certainly powerful, but he hid from the world, having become one with his familiars.

But someone like his red-haired chaperone, a master of her craft – and a genius researcher – she was someone he could aspire to.

She did not suffer insult, but neither did she intimidate for the sake of intimidation. She was competent, recognized, feared. She had a younger sibling she no doubt compared herself to, but had made her own path.

And perhaps what made her most grand in his eyes was that she did not pity him. Though she was as far beyond him as he presumed Zelretch was beyond even her, she didn't look down on him or give him special treatment.

She taught, certainly. She casually dropped insults. She guided and led.

But she had not pitied.

He could tell, since everyone else in his life seemed to pity him – either that or consider him worthless.

When she had shown him to the best shops, helped him bargain and get the best deals, introduced him to the best crafters, the Aozaki magus hadn't been doing anything special. She had taken him here, shown him these places because they were places she knew and frequented – and because of course, his grandfather was probably paying a rather hefty sum for her services.

All of which meant he was being treated as a client, not a charity case; a potential colleague, not a worthless waste of resources who had only escaped the worm pit because his mother had simply let Zouken kill her in his place.

Sometimes he thought he would have rather died than live on like this; he knew not how twisted he would have become, how desperate if the Hogwarts letter had not come.

But come it had, and miracle of miracles, his grandfather had thought he might prove useful, offering him a gift for the first time in his life: a wand and the services of a knowledgeable guide to the moonlit world.

To be honest, he'd feared that whoever his grandfather sent would be a friend of the Archmagus (and thus, an inhuman monster in his own right) who would grudgingly show him around as a favor for Matou Zouken, all the while asking intrusive questions. Perhaps he would wonder aloud why a scion of the Matou line had no experience with the basics of the moonlit world, or indeed, had been forced to become a practitioner of witchcraft?

Aozaki Touko had done none of these things. She might well be a monster in a very pleasant to look at human skin, but she had taken his admission that he was to learn witchcraft without comment, save for mentioning how it was suited for Eastern traditions. Over the course of the trip, she had been frank, professional, and reasonably courteous, taking the time to explain the history of Mahoutokoro and anticipate his questions.

In short, she'd simply done her duty – which was more than Shinji had dared to hope for.

Every other magus in his life, be it the Second Owner of Fuyuki, the _person_ who had supplanted him as heir_, _his grandfather, or, being generous, his father, had treated him as if he was nothing, the lowest of the low. Anything they gave him was a favor, or a gift, when they bothered to give him anything – any time at all.

He might as well not exist in their eyes.

In Touko's eyes – in the eyes of this great magus, he was no different from anyone else starting out on a path.

And for that he was grateful, almost pathetically so.

'_...perhaps she would take me as an apprentice?'_ he wondered, but shook his head. They'd known each other what…one day now? And he wanted to become her apprentice because she hadn't pitied him?

Somehow he thought she would laugh, at best, especially since he was heading off to Hogwarts in a matter of months, and what use was an apprentice who didn't perform even the basics of thaumaturgy?

Yet.

Couldn't perform the basics of thaumaturgy _yet._

He still had the better part of two months; he could shape a new image for himself in the far and distant land of Britain. After all, if he were not the only one who had no idea that he could even practice Witchcraft, then…could he not establish himself as an exotic spellcaster from the East who was already proficient in his native Art?

…yes, this had possibilities.

He would have to prepare himself – to learn, to apply himself as he had never done before, even during his studies of the Matou craft, since then he'd already been aware that what he was attempting wasn't possible. Now though, what he was attempting _was_ possible. If he could master – or at least become competent in – even a few spells from the Onmyoudou tome, he could be the wolf among sheep.

…and maybe, if he learned enough from Hogwarts, blended the arts of East and West, then Aozaki Touko might take him as an apprentice.

For the first time in a long time, Matou Shinji smiled.

He had a goal – and as insane as it might sound to anyone else, insane as it might actually be – he had a path towards achieving it.

* * *

><p>The rest of the time passed in a blur, though even with all the shopping, he and his chaperone managed to return to the <em>Root of the Sky<em> at the prearranged time – and without being overly burdened, to boot. While the robes and cloak – even the casual wear – might have been fine, Shinji had had no idea how he was going to transport a cauldron, book, scales, a _telescope_ and other such.

He certainly wasn't going to carry them all like some beast of burden, or take them back with him on the train to Fuyuki.

That would be the equivalent of screaming "Enforcers, I'm trying to tell the world about Magic. Please kill me now!", or implying that he was homeless – both of which would ruin his reputation. Honestly, given that he'd considered death, it was hard to say which one was worse for Matou Shinji.

At that point, Aozaki Touko had helpfully mentioned that most shops at Mahoutokoro offered delivery, if it was inconvenient to take them now – they just didn't usually mention them for young students, since most who came here were going to be students at the nearby school. She then went on to mention that if one had a Prime subscription and was shopping at one of the "Amazon" affiliates, it would even be reasonably fast.

Since he didn't have that, it would be somewhat slower, but given the prices of what he'd purchased – nothing but the best, after all! – it was offered, and a week wasn't too long to wait.

Which brought him at last to the _Root of the Sky._

Retracing his steps, he strode over to the establishment and opened the door, only to find it empty, save for the catalysts and goods he'd seen the first time.

There was no sign of the _miko. _No sign of his parcel. No sign of his wand.

…and it had already been three hours.

'_what.'_

"That's what I was afraid of," Touko sighed as she entered behind Shinji, closing her eyes as she noted the decided lack of the store's proprietor.

Shinji froze at those words.

'_No.'_

No. It couldn't be true. She couldn't have left. The shopkeeper couldn't have just vanished.

"She's gone. Again."

The certainty in that exasperated statement was the last straw.

_Thump!_

Had he shrunk somehow? Aozaki-san seemed taller now. Oh. He was on his hands and knees. When had that happened?

Ha. Haha. Hahaha.

The world was spinning.

Somewhere in the background, he thought he could hear his hopes and dreams being dashed to the ground. His wand. He didn't have the money for another one. He was sure his grandfather wouldn't pay for another.

He couldn't go to Hogwarts without one.

_No. Please._

Aozaki Touko made no move to comfort him, just frowning as she checked the time and shrugged.

_Figures. It isn't her future at—_

And then the door opened – the door to the back of the shop.

"It is finished," a familiar voice pronounced – the voice of a rather solemn Matsuo Hijiri, who moved slowly, gracefully across the floor. The _miko_ knelt before the suffering boy, lowering her head as she offered him a wooden case of some kind.

After a while, Shinji realized that someone was in front of him and looked up to see the young woman who had agreed to craft his wand. The one he thought vanished.

The one proffering him a wooden case – a case of a dark reddish-brown wood, with silver chasing.

Trembling, the Matou boy – for a scared, nervous boy he was at that moment – reached out, his fingers barely managing to undo the latch and open the case.

He inhaled sharply at the sight within: a wand.

A sleek, elegant looking thing of solid weeping cherry, a tapered rod 28 centimeters (11 inches) in length, with a pleasing golden glow offset by black traceries burned into the wood, reminiscent of the patterns on cherry bark and a twisted base that could hook around his fingers, for a makeshift handle.

"Eleven inches, Weeping Cherry with custom core, unyielding," Matsuo Hijiri said quietly, her soft, hypnotic voice commanding the entirety of Shinji's attention. "Your wand."

He touched it reverently, fingers tracing its length almost sensually.

"Take it," the miko intoned quietly. "See how it fits you. Wake the power that sleeps within you and channel it."

Following her command, his fingers curled around it and lifted it from the box. Somehow, in his hand, it felt _right, _as if it had always belonged there.

And with a swish…

Darkness fell over the shop, extinguishing all light.

"_Kai!" _a voice commanded, and the darkness receded, with Shinji still on his knees, blinking as the miko, who had dispelled the night with a single word.

Matsuo Hijiri handed the boy the box for his wand, critically studying him for a long moment.

"I was right. That wand is one of the most powerful I have ever crafted," she murmured. "A wand born from the power of wishes, tainted by the darkness of mankind, bound into reality by the immortal weeping cherry of Mahoutokoro itself. An appropriate wand for one who wishes to become anything but ordinary."

Shaking her head as if clearing her mind of cobwebs, she levered herself upright, glanced over at the red-haired magus who had simply looked on, bemused.

"Yes, Touko, what is it?"

"Could you at least leave a note if you're going to be late next time?" the Aozaki replied sardonically. "Matou here almost – well, did have a breakdown."

"Hmph. Crafting is a fine and delicate art," the _miko_ answered impassively. "And sometimes, it takes longer than one thinks. Especially with such unusual materials, when one is resolved to make nothing but the best. You should know that, Touko. You're a maker of things yourself."

"Only when I want to be. I don't take requests, unlike yourself - maybe that's why I'm never late on delivery, as you so often are. Or gone so much of the time."

"Yet, somehow, you've never complain when you get the final product," Matsuo Hijiri smiled, gesturing at her establishment. "Whether I make it for you, or find it from the least expected places."

"…hard to when its _her_ credit from the Association I'm spending, after all."

"Should you really be telling me this?" the _miko_ asked, raising an eyebrow. Then she shrugged. "Whatever, money is money, I suppose."

Touko only laughed, a warm sound that echoed in the room.

* * *

><p>On the way back, Aozaki Touko showed the Matou boy how to use Mahoutokoro's warp points, nexuses of force that shot them across the geofront, hurtling them back towards the ledge from which their journey had started.<p>

And for the first time in his life, Matou Shinji…flew.


	6. Fast Train to Nowhere

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unimaginable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6.<strong> _Fast Train to Nowhere_

As he had promised himself in _Mahoutokoro, _Shinji spent the next two months training, working as he had never done before. He became something of a recluse, actually, spending his days and nights in his room – save for what breaks his body made necessary – poring over the _Onmyoudou_ tome he had acquired in a quest to unlock its secrets.

At least, enough of its secrets that he could reasonably claim to be the heir of a magical family, with the influence that would follow from that. Power commanded respect – even if one had nothing else, no riches, no fame, no knack at reading people and using leverage. Power, backed by _tradition_, was even better, as tradition implied knowledge, secrets, hidden cards.

Consider the dwindling fortunes of the Tohsaka family – the Matou were far richer, given his grandfather's…timely investments, and its patriarch far older, but with the Tohsaka bloodline still strong, while the Matou blood weakened generation after generation, so much that they had needed a Tohsaka to become heiress…

…well, that alone spoke volumes about which family held the dominant position, despite whatever monsters the Matou had hidden away.

Still, that just spoke to the weight of tradition and power alike, and as isolated as the western sphere of witchcraft undoubtedly was, given comments Aozaki Touko on how there was "they have forgotten and much they do not know", he thought he would be able to pass himself off as what was essentially the scion of an elite magical tradition.

The mannerisms Shinji could pull off – all he had to do was mimic how Touko had acted around her peers: the easy, casual manner that she wore – the wisdom she dispensed - the way she did not ask for recognition or respect, but simply acted as if such was natural. That expectation – that confidence – was something very few could refuse – and even then, most would not, recognizing the skill and power that backed it.

Asking for things, demanding other people give respect, actually using force to make someone else bow – only those weak in spirit were forced to do that, and the results showed. Those who did not believe in their own strength, who were insecure, who constantly forced others to recognize them might get obedience, but that was an unwilling obedience based on fear.

And unwilling obedience eventually turned, as resentment built and rebellion festered, until eventually things came to a head, either with the emergence of some alternative whose yoke might be lighter, or with people reaching their limits at last.

Respect, on the other hand, went much further. To those who were respected, seen as reasonable and commanding, power was simply given. Favors were offered, special deals available, secrets given freely, because people implicitly trusted them.

And that was what Matou Shinji wanted.

Not just the power to crush those before him. He'd certainly claim that, but he wanted more. He wanted people to recognize him as special, as someone worthy, who they deferred to without thinking about it. He supposed in some twisted manner, he wasn't too different from that Emiya kid, who wanted to be a savior of humanity. Well, maybe there was a difference, since in his case, actually being a savior didn't matter so much as people believing he could be one.

He held up his wand, the powerful instrument that the miko had said could bring salvation or destruction at the user's whim, crafted from wishes.

Wand and brush were the tools he used to create ofuda, the foundation of his version of Onmyoudou – a wand to infuse a slip of paper with stored power, a brush or other tool to give that power purpose, creating a stabilized spell.

He'd found that it took strong visualization to make it work – that he had to picture what he wanted in his head, and bind that vision to the power in a piece of paper with the written word. Later, he imagined he might be able to craft ofuda on the fly, or at the least, mass produce the basic templates for ofuda, with purpose and will, but no power - but for now he was stuck with making them one at a time.

One by one he crafted them of prana, paper, ink, and will.

Ofuda of sealing, based on the concept of sealing the physical. He'd had much practice with these, as they had been the first things he'd learned – since he needed better ways to prevent intrusion than a mere physical lock. Any magus worth his or her salt had a workshop, after all, so to protect his research. And while Matou Shinji might well be a failure of a magus and barely a practitioner of witchcraft, the work he was doing on blending schools of Craft, building a specialty of his own, could well qualify as research.

Ofuda of warding, based on the concept of separation. Sealing the doors and windows had not been enough – he wanted no distractions. No sound to leak through – and certainly no prana. These had been more difficult, needing more power than he was immediately comfortable with, and he had tried to use them only when he thought everyone else was out of the house, given that putting up what was pretty much a limited scale bounded field was certain to draw attention.

But no offensive Ofuda – none to bind, none to damage, none to explode.

And certainly no Shikigami, of course.

For one thing, he had only his room in with to practice his Craft, and he wasn't about to risk destroying it (in the case of explosive ofuda), or killing himself (in the case of binding ofuda, if he practiced on himself and couldn't dispel it – particularly when the seals on the door and his ofuda of warding were up).

And making familiars with paper, ink, and will – well, he hadn't even attempted that. Shikigami were far beyond him – and he knew it full well.

A familiar - something that could move independently, without being directly ordered to do so, something that could hide, something that could seek things for him, something that could guard; something capable of carrying out complex tasks – that was what he saw a shikigami as.

An extension of himself – a symbol of himself.

A milestone to being recognized as a practitioner of thaumaturgy. He wasn't about to waste his effort, and his time, no matter how tempting it was. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he could almost imagine his wand whispering to him, promising that he could make something if only he applied himself – familiars made to crush, to destroy, to explode and more.

Familiars of flash and bang and little polish.

...and he supposed it was true. If he wanted something as primitive as single-use familiars, who sought his foes and overwhelmed them with numbers, he could certainly make them. But those were little different than basic ofuda - prepared spells with a single, basic purpose – and not the best choice to impress.

Perhaps at Hogwarts, he would be able to find someplace to set up a workshop and experiment with more…violent ofuda variants, or trap ofuda, for binding or absorbing another's prana. Why, the tome even mentioned possibilities for using arrays of ofuda to absorb and re-emit witchcraft type spells, arrays of ofuda to cast elaborate illusions, or to bind spirit into matter.

…it was surprisingly in depth and yet easy to read. But he supposed he should have expected that of the surly Toroi individual, who did seem to love books more than he enjoyed the company of any humans.

And so he continued making a little pile of innocuous slips of paper, little bookmark looking things with the word 'Seal' written on them, each infused with prana and purpose.

Tomorrow would be his first time setting out on his own.

It would be the performance of a lifetime, and he intended to be the star.

* * *

><p>True to Professor Flitwick's word, a portkey came for him on the appointed day, with an accompanying letter mentioning that it would take him right to Platform 9 ¾, from which something called the "Hogwarts Express" left, so he should have his belongings packed and be ready to go. Unfortunately for Shinji, who had already been prepared to go after finishing his ofuda crafting and deactivating his warding ofuda the previous night, a pesky thing called time zone differences meant that he would have to wait till 7:30 that evening for the portkey to activate.<p>

Shinji had sighed as he read that letter, delivered by owl, as the original had been. In fact, it had been what woke him up that morning, excited for the journey ahead.

…and not at all eager to deal with the business of the life he would be leaving behind.

He didn't have many he could call friend, nor…anyone, really, who knew who he really was, so he wasn't pained about leaving his childhood acquaintances behind. Nor would he miss his family, such that it was. His grandfather was an inhuman monster, his father was a terrible drunk, and his sister…well, she wasn't even really his sister, just a Tohsaka usurper who had been given the name.

Months ago, he would have begrudged her that.

He didn't now. He had something that was his. It might not be great, it might not be backed by the weight of his family's tradition, but it was _his._

The Matou craft…his..._sister_ could have it, if she wanted it so badly. He wasn't so weak that he would fall into despair from not being picked as the successor.

He would make his own path, as had the magus he had met in Kyoto.

And like her, he would become glorious.

That said, he was less than comfortable with some of the consequences of that decision. If he was acting as the presumptive heir of the Matou clan, then his grandfather, as the family patriarch, could have informed the Second Owner that he would be leaving Fuyuki to study Witchcraft. As it was, however, that burden fell on him, as he stood at the door of the Tohsaka home, the Second Owner's cold eyes looking upon him as if in judgment.

He could have done it via letter, certainly, but he thought that his first official action as a magus should be done in person.

"Second Owner," he had greeted her formally, even taking the time to bow, as eastern customs dictated.

"What do you want, Matou-kun?" the Second Owner had replied grumpily, her gloomy countenance and bleary expression at odds with how Shinji remembered her being at school. She had always portrayed herself as a model student, as perfect – so why was she not bothering with the act now?

"I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me this early in the morning," the boy continued, nodding in respect to the nominal supervisor of the spiritual land of Fuyuki. "You must be quite busy with your many duties."

"You said it was important, so out with it," Tohsaka Rin grumbled, folding her arms as she looked at Shinji critically. As far as she knew Shinji didn't have any talent at magecraft – that the Matous were a dying lineage, which was the only reason Sakura had been adopted into their family. So why was Shinji wasting her time by requesting a meeting with her in her capacity as Second Owner?

"I have come to pay my respects as a magus, Second Owner," Shinji continued politely, seeming every bit what he was at that moment - the scion of an old family that had long practiced their Craft. "And to inform you that I will leaving Fuyuki for Britain."

"You're going to the _Tower_?!"

This time, Tohsaka Rin could not hide her incredulity. What was the Matou boy thinking? True, his family name might get him in the door, and he might pass an entrance examination if it focused only on the theory of magecraft, but the first practical test he sat for would be his last.

"No, Second Owner," the boy corrected, though his expression seemed a bit strained at her outburst. "I will be attending an institute for Witchcraft."

Rin's eyes bulged.

She stared, her mouth falling open in shock as she looked at the boy in front of her.

Really, she couldn't help it.

Shinji…was a Witch? That…wasn't possible. The thought of him dressed up in traditional witches garb, with robes and pointy hat was just….

"Buahahahahahahah!" she burst out, peals of hysterical laughter echoing about the yard as she pointed at him. "Matou, that's just…hahahahahahahaha!"

Shinji didn't really know what he'd been expecting Tohsaka Rin to do. She'd seemed so far above him once, a superior magus, an Average One, someone with everything – who _had been_ everything he had ever wanted.

Seeing her now, unable to accept what Aozaki Touko had with ease _disappointed_ him. Was _this_ really what he wanted to become? The Second Owner of a land – shackled to it, as much as he benefited from it? Someone who lived in a land without getting a sense of its crafts?

Was this it?

He felt an odd sensation inside of him, something he hadn't felt in a long time, since the first time he'd seen his eventual replacement - and not known why she was there.

He felt sorry for her, but at the same time felt profoundly grateful that he _wasn't_ her. Yes, an accident of birth had left _her_ with working circuits, while he had none, but who was the one left with an open mind? Who was the one who could make his own path?

She was part of a world he was leaving behind anyway.

So her laughter - it was nothing. It meant nothing. It was the laughter of an ignorant little girl who knew only the traditions of the Association.

His old self – he might have stormed off in a fit. This new Shinji just waited until she was quite finished, bowed, just enough not to be rude, and headed for home, leaving Rin rather nonplussed.

* * *

><p>The rest of the day passed in a blur, with Shinji double-checking his preparations, donning his finest clothes, and making sure his trunk – which had apparently been included with the supplies he'd bought, given that it had been marked as a "first year bundle" – contained everything he'd need. Two things he did not pack, however: his ofuda and his wand, as he thought he might need them.<p>

While he had read a little bit of _Hogwarts: A History_ – a decidedly dry volume with little useless information in it – and learned of the four Houses of Hogwarts, he hadn't put too much stock in it. History books tended to gloss over such unpleasant things as initiation rituals and other local secrets, according to the unconscious biases of those who had written them.

Even if there were no unpleasant rituals or fights to the death that awaited him, there were still the informal rituals of power – and a casual display of such could go a long way towards establishing his place on the hierarchy that existed in any gathering of children.

7:28 PM.

The portkey was in his hand, a worn, old looking thing that might have once been a key, and his trunk in the other, with an ofuda to seal it, and another to soundly separate the weight of what was within from the outside world.

That particular charm had been one of the last he'd made, as he'd realized just how heavy the trunk was, with his worldly possessions within.

7:29 PM

As the seconds counted down, Shinji wondered just what Sakura would think if she wandered into his room while he clutched this old key. He hadn't seen her, hadn't spoken a word to her, these last few months, and now it must seem that he was just going to disappear.

He supposed he'd have to find a way to make amends eventually, but it was too late now, and besides, she had not been home. Zouken would let her know where he went – maybe. The old man might just decide that she didn't need to know, that such a thing was irrelevant to her training.

Shinji really wouldn't put it past the man. Zouken was a creature of whims, after all.

_Three seconds._

_Two._

_One._

7:30 came – and the Portkey jerked to life. Shinji felt as though a hook had caught him around the middle and yanked him irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground – but it was nothing like flying; it wasn't liberating at all – in fact, it was almost terrifying, as a howl of wind and sound and swirling color erupted before him, the key pulling him on and on and on.

He felt like was being stretched, as if he was going to be pulled in two!

And then his feet slammed into the ground, the world slowly becoming solid once again as he unsteadily blinked away the spots in his vision.

That…had been a trip.

He looked around, seeing more blonds and redheads than he had seen in his life, with some brunettes mixed in as well of all ages, shapes, and sizes – parents and children, he thought. Then this must be the platform, a suspicion confirmed by the sight of a scarlet steam engine with wisps of smoke rising from its smokestack, and many carriages that trailed behind it.

'_Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.'_

Matou Shinji was decidedly not impressed. Kyoto Station had been far more interesting than this, the crowds bigger, the trains presumably faster, and directions more clearly marked. He wondered what was on the other side of the wrought-iron gateway he could see, as he thought there had to be more than just blank stone behind it, but then saw a group of redheads emerging through the arch, as if from nothingness.

'_Ah…a bounded field. Probably set to allow only those bound for Hogwarts to pass through…'_

Which would make sense, he supposed. But that posed problems too - what if a mundane wandered in? Or perhaps, what if there was a child with potential for witchcraft who had no magical relatives? Would they be separated from their parents? Or was the barrier also keyed to allow the passage of blood relatives?

That had issues too, however, but he supposed given where _Mahoutokoro_ was, he shouldn't be thinking about these things too much.

So Matou Shinji made his way slowly towards the train, and observed, as cats of every color wound here and there between his legs, owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled way over the bustle and scraping of trunks, and parents bid tearful or stern goodbyes to their children.

All in all, not very impressive, but maybe that was just the way of the English.

…and he supposed the lack of impressiveness would help with his Eastern Master Façade.

The way most of the children looked though, half of them uncertain, another half bright eyed and curious, he didn't think it would take much.

_English._

He hadn't heard that tongue in a very, very long time – at least a few years. It was rather unfortunate that there were no translation spells, but he'd learned enough of the language to get by.

So it was that he picked up a few key words: "Harry Potter", "the Boy who Lived", "killed You-Know-Who as a baby", "Hero of the Wizarding World," "on the train", and "first year!"

He would have dismissed it as nothing, save that multiple people were talking about it – with two who had just come off the train mentioning that they had just seen him.

'_There's a first year here who is believed to have defeated someone so feared they won't speak his name…as a baby?'_

Shinji was skeptical at best, but…he wouldn't ignore the possibility that this was true. If there was someone his age who was regarded as a hero, he wanted to know this.

At the very least, if he could associate himself with this person – impress this person – he might be able to get a head start on gaining influence in his own right. He'd have to play up his role as wise and experienced practitioner of his family's Craft, but he thought he could do it.

Especially if he didn't have to use his wand.

He lingered just enough to get a brief description of this Potter boy before moving on, pausing only momentarily at the sight of an exotic-looking girl with tanned skin and purple hair, who was sitting somewhere closer to the front.

'…_a magus?'_

He didn't think purple hair was natural, after all, unlike his hair – a shade of black that seemed blue in the light. Only one person he knew of had _that_ hair color: his adopted sister, and she had once had _black_ hair.

This girl, this –_Sokaris, _he was hearing from the _crowd- _was apparently another foreigner, who some were calling a metamorphmagus, whatever that was.

'…_curious.'_

Certainly, she was someone to keep track of, given that she might be able to see through his act. And if not, perhaps if she was from the Middle East, as her coloration suggested – maybe she'd have some interesting spells. One never really knew.

For the moment though, his goal was clear – he needed to talk to – and get to know, Harry Potter.

* * *

><p>Following the hints – the door the two red-headed boys had come of near the back of the train, the description he'd overheard of Potter, and such, it wasn't too hard to find the boy. Potter was sitting alone, leaning against the window. He was shorter than Shinji expected, with messy black hair, clothes that were obviously second hand, a set of glasses – and an overly thin frame.<p>

…and really, he didn't look like a hero, or a great practitioner of the thaumaturgical arts. But then again, the best of them never did – except that this boy lacked the quiet confidence of the others he'd known.

Odd.

Shinji blinked for a moment, thinking he might have the wrong compartment. By now, he rather thought with Potter's fame, there would have been throngs of people clamoring to meet him. At least, he thought those two redheads from earlier would have capitalized on their knowledge, or sent their…younger brother…this way, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

The last thing he wanted was to come across as rude, after all.

"May I join you?" Shinji asked, glancing over at the seat across from the other boy.

The boy shook his head, so with a nod and a pleasant smile, Shinji slid his trunk smoothly into a trunk of the compartment – and then, his hands freed, casually flicked two of his ofuda towards the door.

Immediately, the compartment grew quiet, the dull roar of conversations on the platform fading away as his prepared spells activated, sealing the door and warding against sound.

"I hope you don't mind - I simply would rather not have to deal with too much noise. It was night when I came over from Japan a few minutes ago."

Shinji smiled then, shaking his head as he tried his best not to mess up anything - pronunciation, attitude, or any of it.

To his satisfaction, he found the other boy's attention was flickering between him - and the ofuda he had used.

'_Excellent…my hard work is paying off already.'_

Even if this wasn't Potter, it would make for a good test of his abilities, he supposed.

"Matou. Shinji Matou," the would-be onmyouji said by way of introduction.

"Harry Potter," the other boy answered softly, studying Shinji curiously. The casual way he'd just silenced the noise from outside. "How'd you do that earlier? You didn't have to say a single word!"

'_Ah…so this _is_ Potter.'_

"It's a style of Craft that is fairly common where I come from," Shinji answered. "It helps that my family is descended from a line of magi, I suppose."

"Wizards, you mean?" Harry asked, then looked alarmed as Shinji twitched at the question. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother—"

"No, it's not your fault," Shinji said, holding up his hand to forestall more apologies. "Where I come from, wizard means something else. Something beyond what even practitioners of Witchcraft can accomplish."

"Like what?"

"Oh? Travel through time, go to alternate worlds, bring back the dead, those sorts of things."

"You're having me on!"

"No. I'm not," Shinji replied quietly, his voice solemn as he looked very deliberately, very intensely at the other boy. "I'm not. It's no more ridiculous than the idea of a baby defeating a dark …practitioner who has honed his Craft for a lifetime, yes?"

Harry Potter swallowed, though he didn't deny it.

"I don't know," he replied after a while, turning to look out the window.

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep, greenery having replaced the steel and concreted jungle of the cities.

"Honestly, until my invitation to Hogwarts came, I didn't know anything about being a wizard. I didn't know my parents. I didn't even know about Voldemort, the wizard they say I beat. I didn't even know how to get through the gateway at King's Cross." Harry slumped. "They say I did this incredible thing, but I bet I'm the worst in the class."

"Only if you don't try," Matou Shinji answered him, struck by the boy's honesty. "There seem to be plenty of people from non-magical families too, from what I've heard. And Hogwarts takes in all sorts."

"Yeah…but they won't expect as much of them," Harry said, grumbling. "Even you know my story, and you're from bloody Japan."

Shinji had to laugh at that, a sound that took the Boy-who-Lived off guard.

"I don't, really. I just heard there was a Harry Potter who killed You-Know-Who – apparently this Voldemort - just before I boarded the train," he said with a shrug. "I had no idea if it was true or who you were." He stopped laughing then, his face taking on a more serious cast as he looked at Harry. "But this isn't the kind of attention you want though, is it?"

"…no," he said, his ears turning pink. "The way they look at me – like I'm a hero. I don't deserve that. I don't even remember what they say I did."

"And what do they say?" Shinji asked quietly. "If it's not too much."

"They say Voldemort killed my parents, and then he came after me," the dark haired boy said, shuddering as he lifted his hair, showing Shinji the scar. "They say he failed – that he died, and only left me with this scar. That's…all I know. Still better than what I'm leaving behind though."

"Harry – can I call you Harry?" Shinji asked.

The Boy-who-Lived nodded.

"We all have our circumstances," the Japanese boy sympathized, deciding to share a small secret of his own. "Compared to the rest of my family, I'm a disappointment. I couldn't do magic until a few months earlier, you know."

Harry stared. Someone capable of magic without a wand, without even saying a word was considered a disappointment?

"But…you just…how?"

"I know a little about not meeting expectations. I was supposed to be the heir, but I couldn't do their kind of magic, so they picked someone else," Shinji stated, his thoughts going back to the day he discovered hid adopted sister being trained in magecraft and the blow that had been to him. "But I found something to believe in, something I could do." He smiled a little bit as he thought forward to that day at _Mahoutokoro _when he had gained a wand, when had _flown_. "I found my own path."

"…it's not the same thing," Harry countered. "You came from a family that had magic. You knew it was there. And they probably taught you something, right? My uncle and aunt…they hated magic. They probably would have wanted me not to exist."

Shinji only shook his head.

"If you're not the heir, you may as well not exist to my family," the Japanese boy said. He wasn't especially careful sharing so much, but learning how much Potter didn't know, he saw a bit of himself in him – and could see how useful it would be to be his friend. "Everything I learned, I mastered on my own." He cracked a small smile. "And I'm not so terrible now, am I?"

"Heh…no, you're not," Harry admitted, smiling a little bit in spite of himself. "Do you think you could…?"

Harry trailed off, not knowing whether he was pushing too hard. He wasn't good with people – never had the chance to be.

"I'll show you a few things, Harry, if you remember one thing."

"What's that?"

"That it's not people's expectations you need to fear – it's your own," Shinji said, trying to express some of the wisdom Touko had shared with him. "Don't try to fit into a role others define for you – find somewhere you belong, and make your own path. Become someone you can be proud of."

"Huh. Do you really believe that, Shinji?"

The Japanese boy nodded.

"I do."

* * *

><p>The rest of the trip passed in relative silence. The two talked a little about various things, with Shinji sharing his experience at Mahoutokoro and offering potter one of his ofuda – one of those made to seal away weight, and Harry giving Shinji the audience – the acknowledgement - he'd always wanted.<p>

They parted ways from the Hogwarts Express as friends – or as close as one can come on a first acquaintance, with Harry feeling…glad…that someone hadn't asked him too much about his past, and Shinji glad to have made the acquaintance of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Shinji had talked to Harry about confidence, of being comfortable with who he was. He added too that no matter what houses they ended up in, he'd be glad to be Harry's friend, as Harry hadn't commented on his accent.

His friend ended up in Ravenclaw, much to Harry's lack of surprise. The other boy was bright and incredibly talented, even if he said it was just hard work.

Thus it was that Shinji's words about finding a place and becoming someone he could be proud of stuck with him. So when the time came to be sorted, so when his name was called—

"Potter, Harry."

—and the Sorting Hat placed upon his head, that was the main thought in his mind – what he wanted to become. A great wizard who would live up to the expectations he set on himself.

As such it took almost no time at all for the Hat to cry out:

"SLYTHERIN!"

…as the entire Hall went dead silent, except for Matou Shinji, who true to his word, stood and applauded Harry as he walked over to the table of the house of snakes.

Sokaris, the exotic foreigner whose looks had dominated any number of conversations on the train, was sorted into Ravenclaw and promptly forgotten, taking a seat between a bushy-haired brunette and the young Matou scion.


	7. Alchemist and Onmyouji

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7.<strong> _Alchemist and Onmyouji_

"_Ah, what do we have here?"_ a voice had whispered in Shinji's ear, after his name had been called and the Sorting Hat, as the professors had called it, had been placed upon his head. _"Knowledge, certainly. The knowledge of a lost bloodline and that of the East. But there's more."_

In a way, Shinji had been relieved that there were in fact, no hidden initiation rituals or trials by combat. Given what he'd read about this style of magecraft, he was sure he could have won such a trial by simply sealing his opponent's lips with his ofuda if he needed to fight a classmate, as whatever spells a first-year knew, he or she should not be able to do non-verbally. However, there was no guarantee such a trial would have been against humans, so perhaps it was for the best.

On the other hand, the fact that his destiny was to be decided by a tattered old hat which had probably been made as some magus' experiment disturbed him. Why, look at the horrible performance it had just put on, the way it tried to grab everyone's attention...

"_...I'll have you know, I resent that remark."_

Hm? Wait. The hat…could understand what he was thinking now? Even though it had been created by Westerners, and his mind operated in Japanese?

"_Of course I can," _the now-identified voice muttered. "_After all,_ _I am borrowing some of your mental capacity to process the knowledge you possess. Spiritual Hacking, I believe the Founders called it."_

Shinji froze when he heard that statement. For something to just casually enter his mind and just take over a portion was…

"_Oh don't worry about it too much. I have very limited access permissions, as well as restrictions on reporting. The Founders made sure of that. Basically, once this is over, I won't remember a thing about you. Besides, aside from your surface thoughts, I'm just getting a high level summary."_

Fine, that was a relief, but if these practitioners of witchcraft could break into his head this easily, could translate his thoughts _using his mind itself_, that meant—

"_Again, don't bother. It's a lost art now, from when the Wizarding World worked with outsiders. It really has forgotten much since we went into hiding to escape the Holy Church, though you didn't hear that from me."_

Shinji blinked. That would…make sense, actually.

"_But you know of the wonders that multiple Crafts can achieve together – you've been to _Mahoutokoro_, the jewel of the East. My, I wonder if they could patch me up – ah, sorry, sidetracked."_

The Hat seemed to _hmm_ and _hummm _and _huh_ for a while longer.

"_Such a thirst to prove yourself. To be the very best, to forge your own path. Such ambition, to bridge the arts of East and West, to delve deeper than any into lost and secret workings. Yes, I daresay you are more ambitious than most who have passed under my brim. Slytherin of course is the house of the ambitious, but your goals lie in gaining knowledge, for like a true magus, you believe Knowledge is Power."_

Shinji nodded at this, as it was true.

"_Very well. In that case, the only choice I see for you is_….**RAVENCLAW**!"

As expected, the last word was shouted into the Great Hall, with his new housemates politely applauding as he doffed the Hat and walked over to them, taking a seat at the end of the table. So far, he supposed he was mildly impressed by Hogwarts. The train and station had been no great shakes, but the castle was properly intimidating, with its silvery apparitions, enchanted ceiling and such.

It was no _Mahoutokoro_, but if this world of witchcraft practitioners had been on the run from the Holy Church, he could see why they would have to scale down. The Church had never been able to get that much of a foothold in the East, with the exception of hidden Christians like the Tohsaka family, and practitioners of thaumaturgy had been much more accepted there.

…he'd just have to adjust his expectations accordingly and hope the foreign connections he made would be useful. After all, he'd already made a small investment into that by sharing more than he normally would have with the boy whose Sorting most were looking forward to tonight: the so-called "hero" of the Wizarding World.

He almost laughed, really – due to his upbringing, he recognized what it meant to be scared, what it meant to hope something better waited – that whatever the future held, it had to be better than the past.

They were alike.

Now, Shinji didn't pretend to know the exact circumstances of the other boy's upbringing, but he knew what it was like to be alone, to feel as if no one cared if you disappeared. And unlike his old acquaintance Emiya Shirou, he wasn't foolish enough to believe he could be a hero. People like that, people who gave and gave and gave, were just used up and thrown away like tissues, with no one remembering they existed.

Of course, as a Matou he knew about Heroic Spirits, the Throne of Heroes, and other such – but he also knew how many people in history had done great things and then were forgotten. Who cared about valor if no songs were sung about it? Who cared about standing up for what was right if it didn't change anything?

Because Shinji had never wanted to be a hero, one of those who worked tirelessly for the benefit of others and never received anything in return. One of those that society would worship while it was convenient, and then toss away as soon as he or she did something contrary.

He wanted to rise above such mundane things, such everyday titles of hero or villain. He wanted to surpass such confining roles and simply be recognized as great, to be the undisputed master of his craft.

…and he was pretty sure that allying himself with Harry Potter, who already had such influence in the world, would be a good start. His offer of friendship had not been altruistic, after all; what better position could there be than being the friend of the Boy-Who-Lived, especially if said Boy was grateful for the support?

Given this, it was really no surprise that when Potter was sorted and the Hat had shouted "SLYTHERIN!", when the hall had gone silent in shock, that Matou Shinji had defied expectation by standing and applauding.

While he would have preferred to be in the same House as Potter, Shinji was sure that he could find a way to make use of this. Why, Potter had seemed grateful for the support, his back straightening, his posture a little more confident as Shinji began to clap.

And others too had noticed, conversations shifting, glances made, rumors starting.

Exactly as he'd planned.

…except perhaps for the interest of a certain wizard who some considered the greatest since Merlin, and that of a dour Potions Master, whose eyes narrowed as they took in the well-appointed figure of the boy from the East.

* * *

><p>That night, after being walked to Ravenclaw Tower by Ravenclaw Prefects Penelope Clearwater and Robert Hillard – both of whom were new to their roles, it seemed – and having the rules explained, the first years were given some time to choose rooms and otherwise get settled.<p>

It was best to mingle and get to know one another when one had gotten that business out of the way, and were no longer in school robes. Shinji had taken advantage of this to choose a room, and freshen up slightly. When he came down to the Common Room, an elaborate circular chamber with midnight blue carpet, arched windows hung with blue and bronze silks, and a domed ceiling painted with stars, he was ready to meet others, dressed in his finest as well, an all-black ensemble of shirt, slacks, and jacket.

To be honest, Shinji didn't feel up to too much talking, since with the time difference, he'd already been up more than 24 hours, but he knew he had to at least pay lip service to the traditions. Not showing up at all would have made him seem anti-social - and worse, would have deprived him of the gossip that he was sure was spreading about him. Still...it was getting to be nearly 6 am back in Japan, and with the new environment, the large amounts of food at the Welcoming Feast, and everything else, he knew he wouldn't be able to stay for long.

Idly, he wondered just how much an average British child ate. And for that matter, why weren't more of them fat, with such quantities of fatty meats, gravies and starch in their diet?

Why at this Feast alone, the menu had consisted of roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, hard boiled sweets flavored with peppermint. And that had just been the main courses. For dessert, there had been blocks of assorted ice cream, apple pies, spotted dick, chocolate gateau, treacle tart, pumpkin tart, chocolate éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, and rice pudding.

Oh, and liberal amounts of pumpkin juice.

…where was the rice? Where were the vegetables? Where was the soup? Where was the milk, even? Or the tea?

Why was everything greasy or sugary?

_'Touko was right about British cuisine,' _he groused to himself. _'Too much in the way of meats and oils and sweets. No wonder they went and conquered the world.'_

While he had certainly had a penchant for Western food as the Japanese knew it – that had been for cuisines like Italian, German – even American – not this meat and starch laden affair that made him feel bloated and heavy.

Shinji shook his head, blinking back the fatigue that came from a too-heavy-meal.

He'd have to speak with Professor Flitwick, his Head of House, about making some kind of arrangement for cuisine variety, if this kept up. Still, since this had been a Welcoming Feast, he supposed he could give it a few days before coming to the man with a complaint, instead of bringing it up at his appointment with the Head of House in the morning.

Apparently Flitwick had a tradition of meeting with students from abroad to welcome them to Ravenclaw House and see if they had any special needs, since as someone with Goblin blood – and a world traveler – he was more sensitive to these sort of things.

But that could wait for tomorrow.

What couldn't wait – despite his fatigue – was capitalizing on the impression he'd made earlier and satisfying his curiosity. So far, it seemed his actions in the Great Hall had caused a stir, as most of the conversations in the room kept going back to him. Some, of course, had another topic, the enigmatic purple-haired girl who had been identified as one Sialim Sokaris - who was incidentally the person he wanted to see.

Speaking of which…

"You seem have made an impression," a voice said from behind him, with Shinji turning to see the very girl in question. "Just as you desired, Matou Shinji."

His first thought about Sokaris was he was inexplicably reminded of Aozaki Touko. Not physically, of course, as the two looked nothing alike. Sokaris was much shorter than his one-day chaperone, with long, purple hair kept in a long braid, bronzed skin, and sharp purple eyes, and her features that were of course, not Japanese. But the confidence, the way Sokaris carried herself, the way she looked at the world around her – those were unmistakable.

Those were not the carriage and stance of a novice – but a master.

He'd have to be careful. He knew that the other first-years would be watching him out of the corner of their eyes, trying to come to a conclusion about who he was. He couldn't afford to slip up, and so steeled his resolve.

Until he'd recieved the letter from Hogwarts, Matou Shinji been very much like a powerless corpse pretending to be alive. Being part of a magus lineage, but put aside due to his lack of Magic Circuits, he'd had nothing. No one would have cared if he'd died. But he'd denied that, fought it, threw himself into studying the Matou craft in the hope that miracle might occur.

But it hadn't - and then one day, he'd opened the forbidden door and found his sister being groomed to be heiress of the Matou family. And he'd broken - or would have broken - giving in to rage, despair, grief and more for everything he'd lost...had the letter not come.

Matou Shinji was a boy who had been granted a miracle after all, given a second chance to truly live...

...a boy who was still half afraid he'd wake up and find it had all been a dream.

So he focused on the here and now, noting how Sokaris' all-white ensemble of long skirt, white blouse, white stockings and even boots made her seem almost otherworldly, with a golden scarf tied in a manner reminiscent of a cravat and a bracelet on each wrist providing the only splashes of color. How she projected an image of refinement and sophistication that was at least the equal of what he was trying to project.

What was she up to? What was her angle? ...and how could fix his apparent issue with situational awareness?.

"Oh?" he decided to say, trying his best to play things cool. He had to maintain the image of a dignified master from the East. "Whatever might you mean, Sok—Sialim Sokaris?"

He frowned slightly. He'd nearly slipped up already, barely managing to catch himself before saying her name out of order. Western naming conventions were difficult to keep straight when he was tired.

"Your relationship with the Boy-Who-Lived, of course," the purple-haired girl said manner-of-factly, her gaze intent upon him as she spoke. Her voice was rich, smooth, compelling - the kind one wouldn't mind listening to. "Given your support of him at the Feast, it was not difficult to deduce that you were involved in his decision to join Slytherin."

"And if I was, what of it?" Shinji replied, matching her gaze evenly. He was wary, but then he had a right to be. After all, she had approached him, and seemed to be trying to solve the mystery of who he was. "Why should the Boy-Who-Lived not go to Slytherin?"

"Wouldn't the Boy-Who-Lived belong in Gryffindor?" a new voice broke in – the bossy know-it-all type voice of the bushy-haired brunette he had been seated near. "I mean, from asking around on the train, I heard Dumbledore himself was in it, and he's the greatest wizard since Merlin himself. Oh, I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

Shinji kept his face impassive, but it took a bit of doing, between the unwanted interruption and the girl's cruel, cruel abuse of the word "wizard."

"We know. We all heard during the Sorting," he replied archly, trying to give the impression that he wasn't bothered - when really, he was.

"Oh. I see."

"And why does it matter to you anyway?" the Japanese boy continued, turning to regard the newcomer critically, knowing that Sokaris was bound to be observing him. "Are you personally acquainted with the Boy-Who-Lived?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Then why do you care what house he goes into?" Shinji asked, perhaps less than entirely reasonably. Still, that someone thought she knew what was best for a person without even knowing him? That...was irksome. Especially as Potter was somewhat similar to him. "For that matter, what qualifies you to have an opinion on the topic?"

"Well," Hermione said, trying hard not to fidget under the attention, "In The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, a majority of the British dark wizards covered were from Slytherin, including many of Voldemort's followers from the previous war. Many of the heroes of the war against Voldemort came from Gryffindor, on the other hand."

Most of the room, who had begun to pay attention by this time, flinched at her mention of the dark wizard's name. Twice.

"Have you considered that perhaps the book does not include all practitioners of the Dark Arts?" Shinji countered, doing his best not to be distracted by Sokaris watching him curiously. He rather thought she must be enjoying the opportunity to read his reactions, especially when her own were so well controlled. Well, he'd just have to impress her then. "If it simply covered the most powerful, then naturally many would come from Slytherin House, for that is the house of the ambitious. I'm sure the book did not mention what other fields those from Slytherin House have gone on to excel in, yes?"

Hermione frowned, not liking how the boy from the East was bringing up something irrelevant in an attempt to muddy the waters.

"Well...that's true, but..."

And then he had a burst of inspiration.

"For example, since you mentioned heroes, what does the book say about them?" Shinji asked, following up. "Are those who dedicate their life to fighting the dark arts, to wanting to save everyone in their sight, not ambitious themselves? Wouldn't this also qualify someone for Slytherin house?"

Hermione's frown deepened. He'd even interrupted her!

"I see what you're doing," the brunette noted, seeming a little annoyed that someone was trying to twist her words. "You're trying to claim the book isn't credible, that it must be wrong somehow-"

"Not entirely wrong, just incomplete," Shinji pointed out. "After all, who is to say that if we take all who dabble in the dark arts, that suddenly the number of Slytherins wouldn't seem unusual?"

"Surely someone would have said so!" Hermione protested. "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts is very widely read." She huffed then. "Anyway, you're wrong you know. You don't need ambition to fight evil – you just need courage."

"I didn't ask about fighting evil - I asked about heroes and what it takes to be a hero," the boy from the East corrected, smiling ever so slightly. He smiled because he thought he sensed victory - his opponent's argument was weak, and she was flailing. "I asked whether someone who wanted to be a hero would be considered ambitious. Besides, trying to claim that someone would have commented on whether a book is complete is missing the point. Every book has a message it is trying to get across or a topic it covers. In this case, yours focused on notable practitioners of the dark arts, so saying that Slytherin is a house of dark wizards is misguided because all your book talks about _is_ dark wizards. You don't have the sources to back up your claim - and even if you did, those sources would need to be checked to make sure the writer had no hidden agenda."

He was channeling Aozkai Touko, in a nutshell. Her mannerisms, her questions, her insight.

"But why would a book lie?" Hermione persisted, her trust of authority becoming very clear at that moment. "Why would a book present something less than the truth? I mean, obviously not fiction books but..."

Shinji fought down a wave of irritation - how naive could someone be, really? Who didn't have an agenda in this world? Even this...Granger had something to prove.

"Because books were written by people, Granger," he answered after a moment, addressing the interloper by name for the first time. "And people lie."

Hermione flinched. She hated this - being made to look like a fool for pointing out the truth. But why was he so insistent that her books were wrong - or at least didn't tell the whole story? Did he have some objective, some agenda...ah, and there it was. He had convinced Harry Potter - or helped him decide - to join Slytherin, after all, so of course he was trying to talk his way out being seen as a villain.

"Writers wouldn't do that," she said with conviction, wanting to believe in the rightness of authority. After all, if those who had been teachers, doctors, and such lied, what would have been the point. "People who write books have no reason to lie. And even if ambition is part of being a hero, what about knowledge or bravery? What about loyalty? Being Slytherin implies you value ambition above everything, when even Dumbledore, considered a hero of the Light, was brave above all else - that's why he was in Gryffindor."

"And your point is?" Shinji asked languidly, not really seeing where she was going, but thinking he'd give her enough rope to hang herself with anyway.

Hermione flushed angrily at what amounted to a dismissal - a snub.

"You know my point, Shinji Matou," she replied harshly, looking at him and wondering why. "Why did you want Harry Potter to join Slytherin House?"

"Because that was his choice," Shinji answered, his voice sharp for the first time as the brunette kept pressing and _pressing him_. "I did not tell him which house to join - I told him to follow his heart."

"That's not possible - he's a hero. He must be brave, having faced death at such a young age," Hermione shot back, not understanding how the Boy-Who-Lived, the Hero who had defeated the Dark Lord, could end up in the same house as the one he slew. "There's no reason he would end up in Slytherin House - the very house Lord Voldemort came from!"

_No way that a hero could become a villain._

"I can think of one," the boy from the East - who had known a would-be hero - replied. "He ended up in Slytherin House _because_ he's a hero. Because he feels the weight of what it means to be a hero - what it means to want to be a hero."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that someone who hasn't lived his life can't understand what he was thinking," Shinji said, not enjoying this continued line of questioning. "And those who don't understand don't have the right to judge Harry's choice."

"But why?" Hermione pressed, _wanting_ to understand - wanting to fix on something to deny what this person said. This boy from the east claimed that heroes were ambitious - but they were just ordinary people in the right place at the right time, weren't they? Ordinary people who had the courage to stand up for what they believed in, even when hope was bleak. "Why would he...?"

"Because his ambition is to become a practitioner of witchcraft that will live up to the Harry Potter this world believes in," Shinji replied, freezing her with a almost exasperated look. "To become a hero through his own power, not through whatever fate let him defeat Voldemort as a child, so that if another dark arts practitioner rises, he'll be able to protect you all. Will you say that is wrong, Granger?"

The room flinched again, but there was murmuring this time.

Murmuring about the Boy-Who-Lived. About his ambition. About his choice. For of all the ambitions they had known - that was perhaps the most noble, and that was why he went into Slytherin, then...well, some of them felt bad for not doing the same.

Granger felt a little sore that she'd been shown up, so she decided to press just a little harder.

"And how do you know this anyway?" She knew she really shouldn't pick on this, but… "I mean, how do you know what the Boy-who-Lived thinks? By your accent, you're not from England. You couldn't have met him before Hogwarts, could you?"

That struck a nerve.

"Yes, I'm sure no one picked up on my accent at all," Matou Shinji intoned icily, quite irritated that she had brought even that up. His fingers twitched towards his ofuda, itching to take action, to do _something_ - but he restrained himself. Barely. It wouldn't be dignified to just lash out. It would ruin his image, and without that he would be back to being lower than a worm. "And if you must know, Granger, I sat with him on the train."

"You were in the sealed compartment, I presume," Sokaris interjected, an odd - almost amused - expression on her face.

"Oh, you knew?" Shinji said, glancing over at the purple-haired Ravenclaw. "But yes, I was."

"It was simple to deduce, as many people on the train looked for the Boy-Who-Lived, only to find no sign of him," the girl in white related, studying the Matou onmyouji. "The only place they couldn't check was the compartment at the end of the train, which simply wouldn't open. No one saw you aboard the train either, ergo..."

"Yes, I remember that...after not getting an answer, some of us got a Prefect to try and open it," Hermione chimed in, frowning. "He failed." Then, a realization came to her and she looked at Shinji sharply. "Wait…did you have something to do with that?"

"Ah, yes, that would have been me," Shinji replied, bowing slightly, thinking that at least he could claim credit for the spellwork and raise his status in Ravenclaw house - the house of the Knowledgeable. "My apologies for the inconvenience, but as I mentioned to Harry, I had had a full day in Japan before arriving at King's Cross. So when I found a compartment, I sealed the door and put up a sound ward."

He sighed, thinking that would be it for the night. Surely he had answered enough questions to satisfy anyone's curiosity by now?

"Now, Granger, if you are quite finished, I was originally speaking with Ms. Sokaris," Shinji said, trying to be graciously and dismiss her politely. "I appreciate your questions, but perhaps we could finish our conversation later? I am actually rather tired."

And he was, at that, but Hermione would have none of it, caught up as she was on a detail he had mentioned - and she did not like being brushed aside.

"…a ward?" Hermione continued, as if his dismissal had not been said at all. "That's complex magic…especially for a first year."

"Yes it is," Shinji allowed. Unfortunately, now that he had claimed credit, he needed to follow through, "but its something I'm quite used to doing."

He smiled genially, though it was a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. All he had wanted to do when he came down was to have a chat with Sialim Sokaris without these..._interruptions_. Was that really so much to ask?

"No. No...that's not possible - you should only have gotten your wand around the same time as the rest of us, and no one else here can do such magic, right?" Hermione asked, looking around at the crowd. The first years all shook their heads, except for Sokaris, who was not in Hermione's line of sight, and Shinji. "How about simple spells?"

A few nods, but the rest...nothing.

"See?"

"Granger, you know this proves nothing," Shinji said, trying to be diplomatic about this. It wasn't easy. "I didn't say someone else put up the ward. I said that I did."

"Then prove it."

Shinji sighed.

"Is this really the best time for this, Granger?"

"So when challenged, you back off, huh?" the feisty brunette answered him. "Are you saying you didn't put up the ward after all? I mean, I can accept that maybe Harry Potter did, but he defeated a Dark Wizard. I'm sure he knows loads of spells. You - you're nothing but a fraud."

"No. Harry Potter did not cast a single spell during the trip to Hogwarts," the scion of the Matou answered, clenching his jaw slightly, his image beginning to fray. He was very tired of people belittling him, people who had no basis to criticize. This girl who was very clearly from a mundane family, for example, who learned everything she knew from incomplete books. "I put up the ward."

"So you claim," she scoffed, crossing her arms. "Why should I believe you, when everyone else agrees it can't be done?"

"Because I come from Japan, Granger," Shinji answered, no longer trying to be the soul of Eastern reserve. There may have been more than a little ice in his words, in his tone. "Things are different there – and with hard work I've become skilled enough at magic that I need neither wand, nor word to cast a spell."

"And now you're claiming the impossible!" Hermione cried out, stunned at the boy's gall at coming out with what seemed like such an obvious lie. "First you claim you can cast a complex spell that no one else could do, and now you say you can do it without a wand or word. No. There's no way a first year is capable of something like that."

"I would say that what happened on the train proves otherwise," Shinji said, taking a deep breath, as he really didn't want to cause an incident in the room.

"Prove it then," the bushy-haired brunette challenged. "Right here. Right now. Without your wand, without saying a word."

_'…damnit.'_

And just like that, he knew he would have to.

This was not how Shinji wanted this to go. He didn't want to be put on the spot like this, didn't want to be pushed into demonstrating his Craft in front of everyone, but it seemed he didn't really have a choice – not if he wanted to keep his image intact. He had to back up his claims - but he had to be gracious, or it would look like he was bullying her, and that would have cost him more than he gained.

"If you say so, Granger, then I suppose I will," Shinji acquiesced, closing his eyes for a brief moment to make sure his control held. "I do have one request, though."

"What?" Hermione asked, thinking he was asking for some kind of out, adding some kind of condition.

"Once I demonstrate this, please allow me to finish my conversation with Ms. Sokaris," he asked pleasantly as he looked directly at her, cold grey eyes looking into brown. "I would like to do so before I retire for the night."

"What." Hermione had expected something...else. There had been no attempt to get out - just utter confidence that he would be able to do it - and setting the terms of victory. It felt presumptuous to her...at least, if he couldn't back it up.

"Those are my terms, Granger," Shinji replied. "If you do not agree to them, I will not bother."

"Fine," the brunette agreed in a huff. How dare he? How dare he try to imply that it would be nothing more than a slight inconvenience for him to have prove his half-baked claim. As if he had the power to do it in the first place. But...she admitted that she was curious. "And what will you be demonstrating this on?"

"You, with your permission," came the answer, as Hermione's face went blank.

"What."

Shinji smiled crookedly. Now, this was awkward – well, more awkward, he supposed, since Granger interjecting herself into his conversation with the other foreign student had already been such.

"You want everyone to see, right? Well, I can't do that with a warded room," he said, his voice taking on a small edge. "If you're fine with us doing this in front of all the witnesses gathered here, I'll give you your demonstration. But if you're not comfortable, Granger..."

"No…you're just bullying me," Hermione replied, frowning, her eyes flashing defiantly at the boy from the East. She knew what this was leading up to - an attempt to get out of having to show off his lack of skill. "You're trying to scare me for pointing out the truth – that you can't do this. You're trying to talk your way out of this, you fake, but you're not going to get away with it."

"That's a no then," Shinji noted, a bit disappointed, really. "Then I have your permission to continue?"

"Do your worst. Show everyone you're a fraud," Hermione all but spat, balling her fists as she stood tall. All her life, she'd had to deal with people pretending to be something they weren't. But this time, she wasn't going to cave in. She was going to stand up for what she knew to be true.

This was a new her. Someone – Sokaris – had thought her quest for knowledge worthwhile when they'd sat together on the train, noting her enthusiasm for books was refreshing. Someone had accepted her.

Because of that...she wasn't going to back down.

Not this time.

"Then let all present note that I had permission to do this," Shinji spoke, his tone cool, even, almost apathetic. He turned to the purple-haired girl beside him and bowed slightly. "Sokaris, if you would be kind enough to hold my wand?"

The purple-haired girl raised an eyebrow but accepted the pro-offered Mystic Code anyway, as Shinji turned back to Hermione.

"So that no one doubts, I will demonstrate exactly the spells I used on the train – and exactly how I did it," he said, withdrawing two of his ofuda from his pocket and casually flicking them towards the brunette.

They flew from his hands – and sealed her lips.

Hermione Granger tried to sputter in indignation, but could not. Her mouth would not open. Nor did any sound escape.

By all appearances, she had gone mute – and she could not hear.

She looked around frantically to see what was happening, as all had gone silent, except the sound of her heart, beating faster and faster in her chest.

What was going on? Why couldn't she hear? Surely pieces of paper couldn't…_no. _Apparently it could, _and the boy had not been lying._

A frisson of terror shot through her, as she reached up, trying to remove the ofuda, but to no avail. The paper would not budge, would not be torn from her lips, would not rip.

This was magic at work – complex, powerful magic - and she hadn't the magic to undo this. She knew, as sure as she now knew he had given her opportunities - many opportunities to back out.

_No. No. No._

It was almost - no, it was, claustrophobia inducing. The world she could sense, could feel, could hear, had shrunk to - her. She couldn't sense anything in the room, except for what she could see. It was terrifying, like she was just watching herself through a television, that she wasn't really there. She began to panic, her arms flailing about wildly as if in some twisted pantomime, but she made no sound – could make no sound – couldn't move her mouth at all.

The gazes of the entire room – the suddenly quiet room - were now fixed on Hermione Granger.

"An impressive display, but perhaps excessive," Sokaris commented on the affair, her voice pitched low enough that only Shinji could make out her words.

"Perhaps," Shinji agreed, matching the softness of her voice. He hadn't wanted to go this far, but... "I didn't have a choice."

"Perhaps. Whatever the case, you have a choice now, onmyouji," the purple-haired Ravenclaw murmured pointedly. "What will you do, Matou Shinji?"

Shinji startled slightly, his eyes narrowing as his companion identified him a practitioner of Onmyoudou. His eyes flicked between the helpless girl in the middle of the room and the intricately etched wand in Sokaris' hand, thinking about impressions - about in the end, what was right.

He could let Granger wallow helplessly in panic for a time – it was tempting, sorely tempting, even, as she had kept interrupting him, challenging him, testing him. But…no, there was nothing to be won from cruelty.

Only monsters were cruel for the sake of cruelty, and he was not Matou Zouken.

He never wanted to become the man.

So, in the sight of everyone, he walked towards the flailing, thrashing Hermione without his wand, noting how she looked at him with terror in her eyes, thinking he was going to do something worse to her, to hurt her somehow now that she was at his mercy.

...the thought was oddly disgusting, honestly. He'd given his terms and he'd keep them without demanding more. Was this how people looked at his grandfather?

He shuddered.

No. He was doing the right thing now.

Slowly, so as not to startle her, Shinji showed Hermione his empty hands, watching to make sure she could see. When she nodded, he reached out, taking one of her cold hands in his to keep her from pawing uselessly at the ofuda.

He was more successful than he'd anticipated, as she stiffened at his touch, going stock still as his fingers twined with hers.

He took the other hand as well, thinking idly to himself that it felt much colder than the _miko_ of _Mahoutokoro_'s, and with her hands in his, brought her arms to her sides, without any resistance from her part. He waited a long moment for her to calm down, to relax ever so slightly.

With that as his cue, he continued.

Keeping hold of one of her hands, he released the other, bringing his now free hand to her lips - and the ofuda sealing them.

Her eyes widened as his fingers brushed the ofuda, with her trembling at the unexpectedly intimate touch – as no one had touched her lips before - her heart pounding in her chest out of terror - or at least she told herself it was terror. She wouldn't allow it to be something else. Not now. Not with _him._

"Release," he whispered, and just like that, the ofuda let go of her lips, falling limply into his waiting hand.

Hermione felt overwhelmed, almost stumbling as sound, sensation, and more returned, as she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Only two constants helped her from being utterly overwhelmed: the fact that he was still there in front of her - that she could see him doing nothing...and the fact that he was holding her hand and keeping her steady.

"Are you ok?" Matou Shinji asked gently, his voice almost tender to her ears.

She flushed. Violently.

"I'm sorry," she said, snatching her hand away from his as if she had been burned.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, very quietly, humbled – more than a little terrified at Shinji's casual display of power - and how gentle he'd been in freeing her from her panic, in keeping her from falling.

He'd humiliated her.

She'd have to find a way to beat him. Somehow. She looked like a fool - he'd made her look like a fool.

"No," Shinji countered, slate grey eyes meeting those of chocolate brown. "It's not your fault, Granger. Are you alright?"

Hermione swallowed under his intense gaze, and looked away, unable to stand the attention any longer.

"I'm sorry," she whispered a third time, taking a step back. It seemed natural that another would follow. Then another, then another, and another still - until far enough away, she turned on her heel and headed up to the female dormitories, leaving the crowd murmuring once more.

'_So this is what victory feels like. And mercy...'_ Shinji mused, as he watched her. It...hadn't been a bad feeling to free her of the ward, he admitted. In fact, it had been good to know that when it came to it, he didn't have to be cruel. He'd feared that he'd become his grandfather if he had power - but it seemed he wouldn't walk that path after all.

And for that, he was glad.

No one bothered him as he made his way over to Sokaris once more. In fact, most of the crowd began to disperse, as if Hermione's departure had been the cue for their own - and perhaps it was. They all had a few things to think about, Shinji included.

"I made my choice," he said without preamble, as he reached the purple-haired Ravenclaw, holding out his hand expectantly.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking playfully for a brief second before her expression returned to its mask of neutrality.

"If I could have my wand returned, please, Sokaris," Shinji requested pleasantly, to which his fellow Ravenclaw produced the Mystic Code. She was toying with him to a degree, and he knew it, but she had also been right.

"Eleven inches, cherry, unyielding," she commented as she handed it over. "You would have fit in well at _Mahoutokoro,_ especially with your knowledge of Onmyoudou."

Shinji's face went slack for a moment, before his neutral expression returned.

"You know about _Mahoutokoro?"_ he asked, almost sharply. Had she seen right through him from the very beginning? "Have...Have you been there?"

"I have not," the girl replied, her face betraying nothing. "But I indeed know of it – the jewel of the East, it is said. Built by onmyouji and practitioners of witchcraft working as one."

That phrasing, 'practitioners of witchcraft' instead of 'wizard' - it had to be deliberate.

He looked at her, meeting her gaze, but her mask was perfect. Too perfect to betray anything she didn't intend.

"…whatever a Metamorphmagus is, you're not one, are you?" he settled on asking. He figured he'd get some kind of answers tonight, even if they weren't as...substantial as what he was looking for. "The rumors were wrong."

"Rumors often are. In this, you are correct, onmyouji," she confirmed, inclining her head slightly. "But then, many have trouble with irregular variables. Irregular variables such as myself - and you."

"Oh?"

"Your talent with onmyoudou, limited as it is," the girl in white commented, her gaze taking in Shinji, as they were the last two in the room. "Your acquaintance with the Boy-Who-Lived. Your views on ambition and heroism. As I said, Matou Shinji, you have made an impression."

Shinji was not entirely comfortable with how perceptive she was, but he knew her observation to be true - he just wanted to know if it had a good or bad impression he'd made.

"You'll find I'm full of surprises," Shinji said instead, smiling ever so slightly, as he was sure she wouldn't come out and say it.

"Indeed," Sokaris answered, allowing a flicker of amusement to pass her otherwise impassive mask. "Your actions tonight have drawn much attention. You have likely disrupted any number of plans and calculations with your words and your...meddling."

Shinji had the distinct impression that there was a layer to this conversation he wasn't picking up on, but in his defense, he was rather tired. It was almost all he could do to keep talking.

"I'm sure such things are just a coincidence," Shinji reposed, trying to seem at ease – and not entirely succeeding. "I simply did what I had to."

He was beginning to understand why Sokaris discomfited him. It wasn't only that she had Touko's sense of confidence - it was that she was utterly an enigma, that he didn't know the first thing about her. He had intended to get answers from her that evening - but she had gotten to see his abilities, his stance, instead. And she had a maturity to her that he found almost unnatural. She didn't say much so it was difficult to be sure, but...

"If coincidences occur enough, one may conclude they are not coincidences at all, but inevitable consequences," the Middle Eastern girl said with an odd expression. "And consequences there will be."

"Oh?"

"The two of us are alike you see," Sokaris allowed at last, in the privacy of a fully quiet common room. It was almost...intimate, the two of them, black and white-clad figures under a painted night sky. Almost. "We both are searching for something at this school. Even if we have vastly different objectives."

She knew, didn't she? She knew...but that meant…she had secrets of her own.

Secrets she knew how to keep better than he did his, because he still knew next to nothing about her.

"Perhaps we can be of help to each other, then," Shinji offered, reaching deep into what few reserves he had left and channeling the mannerisms of Aozaki Touko as best he could. After all, if this girl was on his side, or at least was willing to work with him, he was sure things would be much smoother. "If our objectives are indeed different, I'm sure mutual aid could be beneficial."

"Perhaps," the girl allowed, giving no definite answer. "We shall see, Matou Shinji."

With that, she turned to go, though the Matou scion couldn't resist a last parting question.

"You know I know of Onmyoudou, Sokaris, but what of your talent?" he inquired, deciding to just come out and ask, as she wasn't going to just volunteer anything. "What do you seek to master, beyond what witchcraft offers?"

She paused, turning just enough that he could see her lips quirk into a bewitching smile.

"_Renkinjutsu_," was all she said, before vanishing up the stairs to the first year female dorms.

It only struck him after she disappeared that she'd spoken the word _in his native tongue_, a thought that was both reassuring...and chilling all at once.

Renkinjutsu.

Japanese for _Alchemy_.


	8. Panic, Seaweed, and Goblins, oh my!

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8.<strong> _Panic, Seaweed, and Goblins, oh my!_

When, Matou Shinji woke the next morning, it was still dark. In spite of his tiredness, he really hadn't slept too well, mostly due to the presence of so many bodies – so many _people_ all around him. The sounds of other people awake and trying to sleep – or those sleeping and snoring in the case of someone in the room – the sheer knowledge that just outside the curtains he had drawn there were so many other people made his skin crawl.

He could have used his ofuda to create a ward of sound, but it wouldn't have helped. The snoring irritated him; other people being around – that made him feel caged.

He wasn't used to sharing a room with anyone, and suddenly being thrown into a dormitory with so many people his own age felt…unnatural, almost oppressive. He didn't feel safe – felt almost claustrophobic, really, and had had to force himself to relax and steal what bits of sleep he could.

By nature, magi were often solitary individuals, who while accepting the necessary evil of dealing with normal humans in public, needed a space to themselves. This was for several reasons – protecting their research being the foremost, with safety being another – since one never knew that another magus would do.

Their research – and their continued ability to perform their research – was what mattered, hence why every magus worth his or her salt had a workshop. Even Shinji, in the short time he'd practiced onmyoudou, had made a makeshift workshop out of his own room – somewhere he wouldn't be bothered, could work without the possibility of someone discovering what he had done.

Especially normal human beings. Exposure was one of their worst fears, in fact, especially if there was nothing they could do about it.

And there wasn't, here.

Shinji grimaced, trying to stay quiet as he opened his trunk, retrieved his toiletries and made his way to the bathroom to freshen up and perform his morning routine, using one of his precious ofuda to seal the door.

It was a waste of precious power, he knew, as his stock was limited, and each one he used – emptying it of prana in the process – was one he would have to refill. Still, he didn't care.

After last night, he didn't think he could take other people being around when he brushed his teeth and showered, when he was so _vulnerable_.

Safe and alone for the first time since coming to Hogwarts, Shinji shuddered, slumping against the wall, his breath ragged. Gods, he looked like…well, like Granger had looked after he'd sealed her.

And he wasn't under any spell now, hadn't been overpowered by anything but his roommates' very humanity.

It was pathetic.

If anyone could see him now – and he was thankful they couldn't – they'd see that he was a mess. And why wouldn't he be?

All of his life, Matou Shinji had prepared himself to become a magus, training his mind every day for that future possibility. He'd cloaked himself in a magus' mindset, the beliefs and lifestyle of one…

…and he'd done so for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to be a normal human, to be a child. Magi were never truly comfortable around others, and the very idea of acting without thinking, to be free with emotion was…almost unthinkable.

Especially when it was around people who might as well be strangers.

Take Tohsaka Rin, for example, the Second Owner of Fuyuki – the person who Shinji had wanted to be once. She always wore a mask, always seemed "perfect" to people at school, where she exceled at everything, was respected by everyone, and was almost never rude to anyone.

That was almost certainly a byproduct of one of magecraft's prerequisites: self-hypnosis. Casting a spell, or channeling power required placing one's mind into a state where one could control one's Circuits and visualize what one wanted to achieve. That's why incantations differed between magi, even for something as simple as a fireball – the words were not meant to affect the world. They were meant to affect one's inner self, to put themselves in a state where _they_ could affect the world.

The visualization – the _meaning_ – behind the words was what mattered.

…the only exceptions to these were Grand Incantations, where multiple people worked together to influence the world in a Greater Ritual like the creation of a World Egg – or that great forbidden magic: the activation of a Reality Marble.

Matou Shinji had spent most of his life trying to become a magus, in spite of his lack of circuits, internalizing everything he knew about what it meant to be a magus. Control of breath, distancing himself from human emotion, from the values of humanity, learning the art of self-hypnosis – these were all things he had learned.

All in preparation that when he finally achieved a miracle and became a magus, he'd be ready to step into the position of heir of the Matou. When he'd discovered that his…_adopted_ _sister_ was the one who had been picked instead of him, that instead of her being someone the Matou had taken pity on and adopted, it was he who was pitied, his world had broken to pieces.

He'd never be a proper magus in the sense of using Circuits to affect the world, and he'd thrown away his childhood, thrown away most of what made him human. If he was honest to himself, the line between magus and monster wasn't a very thick one at all – it just involved losing the rest of their humanity, trading it for longevity or power.

The choice was always there – that was why so many vampires had become such through their own research, and why the Tower hated vampires so much – they knew that they were only one step removed.

When he'd gotten the Hogwarts letter, he had thought this place would be like the Tower, that it would be designed for magi, as distant a branch as witchcraft might be. One heard about Witches as solitary individuals, after all, ladies of eternity who were untouched by the present.

But this…most of the people around him were absolutely normal. Normal people who somehow had the power of thaumaturgy. It disturbed him on a deep, visceral level. But at the same time he envied that innocence, that bright-eyed certainty that wasn't his, and would really never be.

A little bit, anyway.

Shinji fought to calm his breathing, aware that his heart was racing, his thoughts churning kilometers per second. There was one other reason every magus had a workshop – because in that space, a magus could simply _be_, didn't have to deal with other people, didn't have to pretend, or play their games – didn't have to feel _trapped_ like he did now.

'_Breathe In. Breathe Out. Breathe In. Breathe Out. Breathe In.'_

Truth be told, he was scared – no, terrified, not by the strangeness of Hogwarts, the moving stairs, the ghosts, and so forth – but the people. Even in Ravenclaw House, which the Hat had said was the house of Knowledge – for knowing for the sake of knowing – the pursuit of which defined a magus – everyone was too _human._

Sokaris being the one exception, to his mind.

It was strange, really, how the one person who intimidated him at Hogwarts was also a comfort to him. But then, she was the only one from the world he knew. The only one keeping secrets. The only one he thought he might be able to fully relate to, instead of the half-relation that he might manage with others.

Which wasn't their fault.

It was his, for not having known what to expect. But now he had to pay the consequences.

He let out a dry sound which might have been a shaky laugh, a sob.

Shinji himself wasn't quite sure which it was.

'_Breathe In. Breathe Out. Breathe In. Breathe Out. Breathe In.'_

After some time slumped against the wall, he finally manage to get a handle on himself. Anger and irritation – that was easy to fight down in contrast. One only had to note his performance in the common room, one worthy of Tohsaka Rin herself – but probably not Touko.

The sheer discomfort of not having privacy, the _violation _of it all – that was much harder.

Quietly, he went through the rest of his morning routine, washing off the grime of a long journey and preparing for the day ahead. He had an appointment with his Head of House before breakfast, and he wanted to make a good impression.

'_Maybe I can ask for a room I can make a workshop. At least a private space.'_

He hated to admit weakness, but he knew he needed help…

…and asking a professor wouldn't hurt his image.

He hoped.

* * *

><p>Surprisingly – or perhaps not so surprisingly – when Shinji made his way down to the common room, dressed and somewhat refreshed by his private bath, he found that he was not the first one up.<p>

"…good morning, Sokaris," he said pleasantly, noting the presence of the purple-haired Ravenclaw. She was sitting in one of the overstuffed blue armchairs by the fire, fingers steepled before her, with her eyes closed and head slightly bowed, but somehow, he didn't think she was asleep.

Her deep purple eyes opened at his greeting, and she nodded to the boy, interlacing her finger as she looked up.

Like him, she was dressed in the black robes of the Hogwarts uniform, with blue trim and the Ravenclaw emblem marking her as a member of the house of knowledge. And…_his eyes narrowed_…her hair, unbound in its braid, still seemed slight wet in the firelight.

"Good morning, Matou Shinji," observed the one who'd implied she was an Alchemist. "Can I help you?"

"Just couldn't sleep," he said blandly. It wasn't a lie, as he had found it difficult to sleep at all, with what bits he caught interrupted by fits of wakefulness. "Time zones."

It may have been a bit of a dodge from the main reason he couldn't sleep, but Shinji was sure it had played some part in his difficulty. And one couldn't blame him for not wanting to discuss such a potent weakness.

"I see," the other noted simply. "It is true that such a difference would be difficult to adapt to."

Matou Shinji had a feeling she understood what he really meant – which again, was both unsettling and a deep comfort.

"What of you?" Shinji asked, as he walked over to the chair opposite Sokaris and leaned against it, crossing his arms. "Why are you up so early?"

"I am not used to much sleep," the girl replied, reaching up and brushing an errant strand of hair from her eyes. "Not anymore."

For a brief second, her expression seemed…lonely, almost fragile – but the moment passed so quickly, Shinji wasn't even sure it had really been there.

"Ah," was all he said, in reply. He had a feeling that many of their conversations were going to be somewhat roundabout. But what—_Aha_. He thought of something. "So, Sokaris, do you have an appointment with Professor Flitwick this morning?"

"Indeed. As do you, I imagine," the other answered, leaning back in the chair slightly, as if enjoying the comfort of it. "But that is not for several hours yet. Why?"

Shinji wondered if what he was about to ask was really wise, given that he knew next to nothing about this girl. But he'd come too far to back out now, so…

"I'm going for a walk. Explore the castle a little bit," he explained, glancing towards the door of Ravenclaw Tower. "Do…do you want to come with me?"

He heard Sokaris laugh then. A surprisingly gentle sound, given how stern and controlled she usually seemed. He wondered then if she had even less interaction with people than he did – and found he wasn't sure.

"You are remarkable to ask a stranger that without hesitation," she said, seeming a touch amused and a touch reproachful.

"Ah, sorry if—"

But he didn't have to complete his apology, as the other stood up then, getting to her feet in one smooth, fluid motion.

"You are not familiar with this castle, despite the brief tour from the prefects," she said, gesturing to herself. "But then, neither am I. I accept, Matou Shinji."

"You can just call me Shinji," the boy sighed, frowning a little. Having her say his full name every time she addressed him was part of what was bothered him. "I mean, we are classmates."

The alchemist seemed to think for a moment, before nodding.

"Then you can call me Sio-Sialim."

"…Sio-Sialim?" Shinji echoed, his voice almost teasing as his lips quirked.

"…Sialim," she said, slightly flustered, as she looked away. "Or just Sokaris will suffice."

"Sialim it is then," Shinji said, thinking it was…actually kind of cute how she stumbled when she was trying to be informal. Even if she still intimidated him. "Shall we go?"

The alchemist nodded, falling into step behind the boy from the East, as without another word, the two exited Ravenclaw Tower.

* * *

><p>The two didn't have much to say to each other as they walked alone together through the empty halls of Hogwarts. Occasionally one or the other – usually Shinji - would make an observation, but for the most part they walked in silence, their footsteps light and unhurried.<p>

Much was a repeat of last night's walk to Ravenclaw Tower, what with tapestries, moving staircases, moving figures in paintings, and suits of armor which Shinji swore were looking at him askance, but at least it gave him time to think without needing to put up a front, or worry about impressions – especially since he wasn't giving anything away by walking, he thought. It did help him clear his head, which was the important part.

He didn't know what his companion thought about their exploration, but he hoped she didn't mind too much.

Strangely, they didn't run into anyone on their little walk.

Or maybe it wasn't so strange. Most people his age weren't early risers, after all. That and it was a big castle with only what, 600 students attending?

He did wonder what his…roommates (and wasn't that a foreign – and disturbing – concept?) would think to see him already gone. Well, he and Sokaris both, actually, since they'd been the last ones in the Common Room last night and the first ones today.

Oh well, if they asked, he did have the excuse that he had an appointment with Professor Flitwick. Both of them did, actually, so it would probably hold, too.

That said…they were there, in front of Professor Flitwick's office.

Or at least he thought it was the office, since Sokaris had come to a stop and gestured at the door, though she hadn't yet knocked. He actually hadn't been paying attention and let his feet carry him onwards – that or followed his dusky-skinned companion.

In retrospect, it could have ended badly, but…there were there

"This is it?" he asked, glancing at the slim figure beside him.

She nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Tomorrow?" he hazarded. If he didn't get some kind of safe place to himself, something where he didn't have to deal with the press of people in the night – walks like this might be all that kept him sane.

"We will see…Shinji."

Huh. She'd actually used his name.

But he had no time to think further, as the purple-haired Ravenclaw rapped lightly on the door, with it opening to reveal a tiny white-haired man with white poofy beard, eyebrows, and moustache, looking much like an elegantly appointed dwarf from out of one of those fantasy books.

* * *

><p>In the doorway stood Professor Flitwick, the Charms Master of Hogwarts and Head of House Ravenclaw, in the flesh, dressed in an intricately embroidered olive-green coat and vest.<p>

"Professor," two voices said at once, the two accents causing something of an odd reverb. "Good morning."

"Ah, Matou, Sokaris, you're early!" the diminutive Professor beamed, waving them inside and over to two overstuffed blue chairs. "Come in, come in!"

The two sat down, as indicated, while Flitwick busied himself with fixing some drinks for his guests.

"Tea?" he asked them. "I do have milk or cherry syrup and soda as well, if you prefer."

"Tea will be fine, thank you," Sokaris answered. Oddly enough, to Shinji's eyes, she seemed comfortable than she had before.

"The same, please," Shinji chimed in agreement. Something hot and light would definitely agree with him.

It was only moments later when the small Charms Professor brought them their cups personally, something that Shinji found interesting, before taking his own seat across from them.

The office itself was filled with books and papers, along with many portraits of what he assumed was a younger Flitwick – with shorter, brown hair, a few trophies, and even newspaper clippings. There were even pictures of this younger Flitwick in the midst of combat.

"Ah, I see you noticed the few mementos from my dueling days," the Head of Ravenclaw house squeaked, chuckling. "Won the International Dueling Circuit a few times. The finals were even in _Mahoutokoro _once."

"You've been, Professor?" Shinji asked. He had thought that many western practitioners did not interact with others, but maybe there were a few who did.

"Oh yes indeed," Flitwick bubbled enthusiastically. "A beautiful place, that. I'm afraid Wizarding London doesn't quite compare, though Hogwarts gives its school a run for its money in the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship!" He focused on the boy from the East, curious. "I take it you picked up your supplies there?"

"I did," Shinji acknowledged. "It was more than I could have imagined."

"Magic is that, my boy," the Professor noted softly. "It is certainly that. Out of curiosity, do you know of any of the Eastern crafts? On-something, it was? Very interesting stuff."

"Yes, sir," the Matou boy replied, holding two of his ofuda. "I have studied onmyoudou. I'm even somewhat proficient at it."

"May I?" Flitwick asked, with Shinji handing one of them over for the Professor to look at. He took out his wand and muttered a few words, raising an eyebrow. "How interesting. Almost like storing a spell."

"Yes, sir," Shinji acknowledged, as the man handed the small slip of paper back to him. "They can be quite useful."

"Anything you can show me?"

Shinji deliberated. He did want to show off, but only had two types of ofuda - the same as he'd used last night.

"Well, these are mostly sealing charms. I guess, I could seal the door?" he asked. Somehow, he didn't think repeating last night's demonstration on either of the two people here was a good idea. At all.

"By all means," Flitwick allowed, curious. As Head of House Ravenclaw, and a master of charms in his own right, he was always curious as to what different traditions were capable of."

Shinji flicked one of his ofuda onto the door, the slip of paper sticking to it and activating the stored spell within.

"May I?" Flitwick asked, gesturing at the door. The part goblin walked over to it, and attempted to open the door, to no avail. Frowning, he took out his wand and cast A_lohomora_ – but there was no change. A spoken _Finite incantatem, _however, did the trick, and the door opened, with the ofuda fluttering free. "Interesting. Quite a bit of power in a bit of paper. And you said these were sealing charms, not just locking charms?"

"Yes sir. Anything that can be opened can be sealed by this, yes," Shinji noted, remembering the Granger Incident, as he was coming to call it. "My other set of charms has other functions."

"Remarkable work for one so young!" Flitwick enthused, clapping. "Sometimes I forget that other traditions start their children with magic earlier. "I'm sure your mother would be proud of you. She came here some years ago, and was herself rather gifted at Charms."

At the mention of his mother, Shinji went gone stock still.

'_What. My…mother?'_

After some seconds of the boy not moving, the part-goblin blinked, alarmed.

"Mr. Matou! Mr. Matou, are you alright?" he squeaked, seeing Shinji shake himself and breathe.

"…I…I didn't know," Shinji replied honestly. His mother had gone here? What…? Was that where he'd gotten this power? From the woman who he'd always heard described as useless? First the press of people – now this? This was too much of a shock. "She went…to Hogwarts? She…"

He seemed to freeze again, almost stricken.

"Oh dear…" Flitwick said worriedly, dabbling his forehead with a handkerchief he had just produced. "I'm sorry, lad, I didn't know."

Turning to his old standby, he opened his desk drawer, with several delicious-looking chocolate cupcakes floating out in front of Shinji and doing a little jive.

Shinji cracked a small smile, but he didn't really feel better. Not with this information on top of his near breakdown in the morning.

He held up his hand, shaking his head.

Disappointed, Flitwick returned the cupcakes to the drawer. That usually worked, but then, the boy from the East seemed wound up tighter than most people he'd seen come to Hogwarts.

"You met the Boy-who-Lived, I hear?" he said instead, trying to change the subject. "How was Mr. Potter?"

Flitwick remembered how Shinji had clapped for the Boy-Who-Lived at the Feast. Given how no one else had, it seemed safe to conclude they knew each other.

"He was a good person, sir," the Matou boy answered softly, but it wasn't quite the same. "I was glad he was the first…practitioner of witchcraft I met."

"Hm…is there a reason you don't use the word wizard?" Flitwick asked curiously. "It seems a much shorter way of saying it."

"It was…how I was raised, Professor," Shinji said. "In Japan, being called a wizard means either you are a great Magician. It is a title you earn, not one you get just from doing witchcraft."

Which was true, strictly speaking.

"Oh, I see," the Professor replied, blinking. "I suppose that make sense, Matou. Well, I don't mind, but know that others may find it odd."

"I was raised with similar traditions," Sokaris spoke up for the first time.

"Well, at least you two understand each other, right?" Flitwick smiled. He hoped the two would be good friends – they had shown up together, and as foreign students, probably understood each other's challenges, so that was a good sign. "Did you two enjoy your first night at Hogwarts?"

He thought this would be a safe question, since most did. Homesickness didn't generally set in until a few weeks later, if at all.

Shinji grimaced. He hadn't wanted to say anything in front of Sokaris, but…

"…actually, I'm used to having a little more space to myself, sir," he admitted. This was his one chance to get help, and he needed his space. "I'm not used to all these people around me when I sleep. I can't…"

He stopped talking, but his expression, blank and trembling, said it all – at least to Flitwick.

"Mr. Matou!" Flitwick said, hitting him with a quick Cheering Charm. Warmth suffused Shinji's body, but the boy still trembled. "Is there anything I can do to help? I can't change the formal sleeping arrangements unfortunately, but anything else..."

"Perhaps a private study room would be helpful?" Sokaris suggested. "I could use one myself, as I do not study well with too many others around."

Shinji nodded.

"Yes…that would be…nice," he agreed, giving her a grateful look. "Somewhere I could work on my Onmyoudou and maybe sleep if I need to?"

"I…think that can be arranged," Flitwick said slowly, thinking to himself. "Yes, we do have some private study rooms in Ravenclaw Tower we normally use for students with major projects in their Seventh year. Given the circumstances, however, I believe I can get two outfitted and get you two keys by the end of the day. Would that be alright?"

Shinji and his companion both nodded.

"Thank you, sir," Shinji said, grateful for the man's understanding.

"I thank you as well," Sokaris noted.

Professor Flitwick sighed.

"Good. Let me know if there's anything I can do. My door is always open to a Ravenclaw in need, especially ones from so far away. Do you need anything else?"

When both shook their heads, he dismissed them for breakfast, before pouring himself something a little stiffer than usual to drink.

"Some days, I really feel my age."


	9. The Comfort of Routine

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9.<strong> The Comfort of Routine

After the meeting in Flitwick's office, Matou Shinji had been shaken. _His mother had gone to Hogwarts?_ How was that possible? He'd heard all his life how she had been utterly useless, a daughter of a third-rate magus family who his father had married solely for her _Inheritor_ trait, in an attempt to preserve what little ability was left in the Matou bloodline. He'd never heard about her having power of her own.

…though it did answer the question of where this ability with Witchcraft had come from. He honestly wasn't sure if he wanted to know more. Just this little bit had unsettled him, shaken the very things he _knew_ to be true.

But Hogwarts as a whole was doing that, from the presence of so many normal people learning to practice thaumaturgy, to unexpected bits of history, and…well, even his previous certainty that he had never met a meal he wouldn't enjoy.

At least breakfast had been lighter, he'd thought, as he'd helped himself to orange juice and cereal in silence. He and Sokaris had been among the first ones in the Great Hall that morning, along with – surprisingly – Harry Potter, who was talking quietly with two girls at the Slytherin table.

He thought their names might have been Davis and Greengrass, but he wasn't really sure. Aside from the Boy-Who-Lived, the only other Slytherin who had really made an impression was a blond, pale-faced boy who had swaggered over to the Hat, as if absolutely certain of where it was going to place him.

A certain Draco Malfoy.

Harry noticed the arrival of Shinji and the other Ravenclaw, and gave a tentative wave. He'd never really had a friend before, and wasn't quite sure what was involved.

Shinji, for his part, nodded and waved back – a move that was not missed by the two Slytherin girls, who glanced between Shinji and Harry with interest. Well, hopefully not the kind of weird interest that he'd heard some young girls – _fujoshi_ – he thought they were called – took in Japan.

Sokaris didn't say much, but then he hadn't exactly expected her to. The girl quietly ate her porridge while taking in every detail of the room, seeming as if she was in deep thought.

Even so, he thought he could make some kind of conversation.

"So what's your wand made of?" he asked, glancing at the dusky-skinned girl. He'd been curious about that, since somehow he thought she had probably gotten hers from somewhere unique, like his.

Besides, she'd seen his, so fair was fair, right?

"Olive with Chimera scale," she replied, to which Shinji blinked. Olive? That was one he hadn't heard before, in the sea of walnuts, birches, vine and such.

"Olive Wand?" he echoed, curious. Then again, the olive plant was revered in Greek myth – and one could hardly be a Matou without knowing something about myth, since they were one of the Founding Families of the Holy Grail War. _And Chimera? Does she mean Chimera as in the mythical animal, or in a Phantasmal Beast? _"That's not used much, is it?"

"Not by Ollivander, the British Wandcrafter, though his ancestor was famed for having one. Hence Ollivander – 'Olive Wand User,'" she added with what he thought was a flicker of amusement.

"Ah," Shinji noted. He hadn't known that little tidbit, which he filed away in case it would be useful later. He also noted that she'd evaded fully answering the question, but he'd take what he could get with her. "You read about it?"

"Knowing the basics of a society is useful if one plans to enter it," she replied cryptically, that statement at once true – and having a deeper meaning that Shinji didn't quite grasp, though he noted that she glanced over at Potter when she said it.

"Ah…" He got the hint. "Sorry, but…"

"Go. I will wait for Granger," Sokaris answered, waving him off. Shinji narrowed his eyes slightly – wondering just what the relation between the two was…and now, whether what happened the first night had been…_arranged_. He shook it off, but then magi by nature were a suspicious lot. "Feel better, Matou Shinji."

Shinji grunted in acknowledgement.

"See you in class," he'd said, standing up and walking over to chat with the Boy-Who-Lived and the two girls with him – who apparently were indeed Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. Unsurprisingly, they did have a few questions for him, where he was from, how he knew the Boy-Who-Lived, and the like. One of them had even asked if he had any secret reasons for being at Hogwarts, whereupon he'd only smiled, saying it wouldn't be much of a secret if he came out and admitted to having one, now would it?

They'd laughed. None of them said too much of substance, talking about the common rooms of their respective houses, schedules (Slytherin had Potions with Gryffindor, Herbology with Ravenclaw, Charms, and Transfiguration today, while Ravenclaw had Charms, Herbology, Potions with Hufflepuff, and Defense against the Dark Arts).

Still, from that conversation, two things stood out. Apparently, according to the Slytherin grapevine, the Potions professor liked to randomly quiz people on the first day to see if they were prepared. Nothing too unreasonable, just basic knowledge one could glean from a cursory survey of the textbook – unless someone caught his interest.

With that, one of the girls had looked meaningfully at Shinji, who just managed to keep his features impassive. He supposed that his actions last night had probably been noticed by the professors, though he really hoped he wasn't made an example of.

The second piece of gossip was that the Defense position was rumored to be cursed, with no professor lasting more than a year. Good, bad, heroic, obviously evil – something happened at the end of every term to make them quit, or worse. Shinji had to wonder why, if this was so, why people even took the job, unless it was a relaxing one year teaching vacation from something more stressful…like being an Enforcer or something.

…though he did wonder what exactly the curriculum would entail. Would they really be teaching people new to thaumaturgy combat skills and offensive spells? Granted, magi could be trusted with them because of the levels of control they perfected, and the way they learned to be objective about things, but normal students….?

'…_it's an accident waiting to happen.'_

* * *

><p>Some time later, he found himself sitting in his first class of the day - Charms - listening to squeaking voice of Professor Flitwick as he took attendance from the massive class register – nearly bigger than him – and gave the fresh-faced students a summary of what they would be learning that year.<p>

Charms – the branch of witchcraft which added certain properties to an object or creature, changing what it did. It had some vague similarities to reinforcement and alteration magecraft, but differed in that it wasn't a matter of pouring prana into an object as much as casting a finished spell on an object.

…rather like Onmyoudou, now that he thought about it.

Personally, Shinji found the scratching of quill on parchment to be comforting in its near-familiarity. He did find pencils – and pens - to be more useful, but given that he'd been using a brush for his Onmyoudou work for the last two months, it wasn't as if a quill was much more difficult, even if the strokes were rather more angular.

…it was something of a chore to force himself to write in English though, since he was far more used to taking notes and thinking in Japanese, aside from the various other languages he had learned bits of to study the books in the Matou library. It was just one more thing he had to practice, he'd decided, as he glanced over at where Sokaris and Granger were sitting, writing away with what seemed like enthusiasm.

Not that he could blame them.

Shinji himself was excited to a degree. This was his first time in a class where thaumaturgy was being taught. Practically everything he'd learned to date had either been self-taught or taught to him in a more informal setting, as with Touko during the tour of _Mahoutokoro_, or Flitwick's demonstration of spells that morning.

The unlocking spell – _Alohomora_ – which unlocked and opened doors and windows not protected against intrusion by magic.

The General Counterspell – _Finite_ _incantatem – _which had dispelled one of his sealing ofuda.

And whatever spell the diminutive Charms Master had hit him with at the end, which had warmed and relaxed him, though not enough to dispel the shock of the information about his mother, coupled with the memories of the night before.

…at least he'd be getting a private study room, where he could practice his Craft…and at least try the first two spells he'd seen demonstrated. Shinji hadn't really been paying attention to the third, but he'd at least caught the wand motions for the others.

Given that Flitwick was now explaining that Charms would only be covering magical theory until Halloween – foundational material, such as how spells worked, wands amplified a wizard's intent, why precise movements and speech were important and so forth - Shinji felt he'd lucked out. Yes, he'd had a breakdown in the Head of House's office, but if he hadn't, would the Professor been as quick to agree to Sokaris' request for study rooms?

Probably not.

At least, unlike sleeping with so many others around, the structure of the academic environment was safe, since everyone had a role, a purpose. The teacher who disseminated knowledge, the students who learned. It was much easier to put on an act when everyone else was playing a role as well.

Still, he could feel the stares of his classmates – Granger's most of all - when Professor Flitwick noted that more advanced wizards could cast nonverbally, and that some of the most talented and powerful could even do so wandlessly.

Given that the Charms Master had just demonstrated the Hovering Charm by making a cat rise into the air, meowing plaintively as its paws lost contact with the ground, it was little wonder his classmates were doing so.

After all, they had no real idea of what he could do, only that his level was beyond theirs at this point.

This probably meant some of them would be asking to work with him in the future, which _could_ be useful, but had its own risks. A partner would be very helpful in helping him refine his Onmyoudou skill, since some things he couldn't test on himself without substantial risks – and some he couldn't really test himself due to intent.

One obvious example was of course, something like binding ofuda.

Another was ofuda arrays.

Simple, continuous effect ofuda could be dispelled by the General Counterspell, assuming enough power was placed into it, but ofuda arrays - the most basic of which simply added a second ofuda to the first – the first carrying the spell's main effect, while the second was meant to protect against outside interference – could resist it.

While they were simple enough to _make, _their effectiveness wasn't something he could test himself since he was the creator of the ofuda. As such, they responded to his will, so if _he_ cast a charm to dispel them, it would work, whether it would be normally effective or not.

But who?

Sokaris would probably agree – but he didn't want to ask her. Though they might be somewhat friendly, magi never shared their secrets with each other if they could help it. That one's research was one's own was about the only code that most magi followed, in fact, and while he might not be a proper magus, he wasn't sure if she was.

If so, he didn't want to ruin his chances of earning her respect.

Granger...? Later. Maybe. He knew she was curious about what he could do, but that could be a bad thing. He didn't want to reveal he was…limited, after all.

He needed someone would keep his secrets. Someone who had something to gain from the exchange and would be grateful for the attention. Someone new enough to the moonlit world that he didn't understand what was powerful and wasn't. Someone—

'_Of course. Potter.'_

The Boy-Who-Lived wasn't in in his House, but from the train ride, he knew that the so-called savior of the Wizarding World would be useful. He'd already promised to show the Boy-Who-Lived a few things, and it was only to the better if Potter was seen as being more powerful, as having special abilities.

Reputations had a life of their own, and if one didn't live up to them, people would wonder why – wonder if their reputations had any basis in truth, even, especially in the house of the ambitious. Besides, Shinji himself had much to gain if he was seen as the friend of a powerful Boy-Who-Lived, one who was respected by his peers not just for what supposedly did in the past, but what he could do now.

From his brief conversation with Potter, he knew the other boy was terrified of disappointing people – much as Shinji himself was, after a fashion – so it was probably his best option. Then from there…maybe an inter-house study group or something, but that was for the future, once he had a grasp of what was being taught, and everyone's strengths and weaknesses began to show.

So far Charms was interesting, and if everyone else was disappointed at no magic being taught right away, the theory was interesting. There were actually a number of similarities to magecraft, suggesting a common ancestry at some point. Of course, the spell base was different and involved motion, not just words, but the base seemed to be intent, amplified by key motions and key words.

Formalcraft, with the magical ingredients of the wand as a catalyst, much as magecraft, as an intent based system, usually still had _some _key words due to the self-hypnosis component.

Maybe in later years, they'd be taught how to make new spells?

No, probably not – from the years covered, this was more like high school than university, whereas the Tower was more University, expecting people to have a certain degree of proficiency before even coming to its doors.

* * *

><p>Now, if Charms reflected Flitwick's love of knowledge, his desire to make sure his students understood why they were doing things, and now just the how of it, Herbology – well, Herbology reflected Sprout's view that nothing could be done well without a commitment to hard work and individual effort.<p>

Many people despised Herbology, not understanding why it was one of Hogwarts' core classes. What need did a practitioner of Witchcraft have for plants, after all, for mucking about in the dirt and grime? Even if they produced useful potion ingredients, that's what apothecaries and owl orders were for – fussing about plants was beneath them, a waste of their time.

Or so they thought.

Shinji didn't really agree. Yes, he knew it was grimy, messy work – but so was magecraft if one really thought about it, especially the Matou craft, which involved filling one's body with worms. Even Onmyoudou, his new craft, required hours of dedication, precise concentration and visualization and more.

It was just like normal people, he thought, to want to skip ahead to the fun things. To the flash, the boom, whiz-bang-blast of spellcasting or flying without putting in the effort. To them, anything that didn't take them close to that was just a waste of time.

But Shinji remembered _Mahoutokoro._

He remembered the city beneath the earth, the trees lining the streets – the great tree at its center, whose magic itself anchored wards and held the memories of those who had come before. That didn't strike him as being something that could be done with just witchcraft, or with seals, but took blood, sweat, and work.

If he ever wanted to make something that grand, to understand how something like that was made, he'd have to learn – it was that simple.

The fact that the greenhouses – all seven of them, even if only two of them were used for

General student education – were beautiful, wrought of the finest glass, with long, serpentine dragons of gleaming gold running along their peaked roofs, was a plus.

First year classes were held naturally enough in Greenhouse One, where the plants were not especially hazardous to one's health. Apparently, Greenhouse Three had more dangerous species of flora, with the others being home to many rare and exotic magical plants which were especially difficult to cultivate and maintain, or deadly if one didn't know what one was doing.

Which again, made sense. Dead students were not something any school – besides maybe the Clock Tower, where death was always a possibility – could afford.

Sprout, a short, dumpy witch with grey curls and terrible fashion sense, warned them that there wouldn't be much wand work in this class. Magic, she explained, could be found everywhere in the world – but to recognize it, get at it, to cultivate and refine it, required preparation and tremendous amounts of hard work, not just the wave of a wand.

She'd gone on to say that even the magical woods that wands were made of had to be cultivated somehow, and that only a very few trees produced wood of a quality fit for a wand.

That had gotten a few people's attention, with a number of Ravenclaws seeming curious about this – especially when she said her first lesson would involve identification of magical plants.

…and it had, even if that lesson had been very brief, covering the main plants on the Hogwarts grounds and their basic properties. The rest of the time had been set aside for something rather less magical: mulching the soil.

Rather unglamorous – somewhat smelly work – to be performed without the benefit of magic, but…Shinji imagined that was the point. Professor Sprout _was_ the head of Hufflepuff House – which valued hard work above all else, and where lions walked pridefully, snakes slithered unseen until striking, and eagles flew, badgers dug into the dirt.

From the sudden muttering that sprung up, Shinji had the impression that of the Slytherins and Ravenclaws, most disliked this, or didn't have any idea what they were doing.

Well, whatever.

He could set an example for what was possible, along with Potter, who didn't seem as put off by the idea as the others were.

"Potter, let's work together," Shinji said, walking over to the Boy who Lived and grabbing a bag of mulch from the indicated pile. He grunted – the damn thing was heavy – but smiled as Harry moved to help him over to the first row.

Mulching? Bad? Magi learned from the very beginning that there would be pain in their craft, that there would be toil, that there would be frustration and anguish.

…and students here flinched from _mulching_?

That made Shinji angry, even if he managed to keep his face pleasant enough. It was just another one of the many differences that got to him, how they'd never had to work for their gifts, and just accepted magic so easily. No one had wanted it, worked for it, given so much of themselves for it as much as he had, and half of them aspired to be _great?_

Shinji coughed – once – to cover a growl and took a breath, forcing himself to relax.

_Image, Matou, image_. _If you can't handle it, create something that can._

"Done this before, Potter?" he asked the Boy-Who-Lived, to which the other nodded. "Good to hear."

And it was good. This way there might be a chance they could go to lunch on time, instead of being late and barely having time to get to the castle for their next class. Speaking of which…

"How was Potions?" he asked, genuinely curious as to what the experience had been like. He had a feeling that Harry's treatment might mirror his own, given the attention he had commanded after his arrival.

The Boy-Who-Lived grimaced, recalling the intense questioning he'd been subjected to by Professor Snape. Three questions, one on the heels of the other – he'd missed the first one, which covered the ingredients of the Draught of Living Death (an advanced potion one normally didn't get to brewing till sixth or seventh year), but had gotten the other two correct.

Snape's response to his performance had been to drawl a thoroughly bored "…passable, Potter, barely."

When one of the Gryffindors, a red-headed boy by the name of Ron Weasley, had sniggered, whispering about how the Boy-Who-Lived apparently wasn't the Boy-Who-Had-All-The-Answers, the Head of House Slytherin had proceeded to whirl on _him_ instead.

"Think you can do better, Weasley?" the man had sneered, looking down the length of his crooked nose with cold black eyes that made the redhead flinch. "What would I get if I combined Ashwinder egg, squill bulb, and Occamy eggshell?"

But there was no answer.

"Fine, Weasley. An easier question then. Ginger Root, Armadillo Bile, and Ground Scarab Beetles?"

Still, no answer.

"Weasley, you test my patience. One final chance, or it's a point from Gryffindor. Lethe River Water, Valerian sprigs, mistletoe berries."

"Uh…"

"Even Potter at least opened his book, Weasley, despite being a…celebrity," the man had drawled, as Weasley turned an interesting shade of red. "For your information, Ashwinder egg, squill bulb and Occamy eggshell makes the potion some call liquid luck, or _Felix Felicis, _which you obviously did not imbibe this morning_. _Ginger Root, Armadillo Bile and Ground Scarab Beetles together make the Wit-Sharpening Potion, a brew you could no doubt benefit from. And a mixture of Lethe River Water, Valerian sprigs, and mistletoe can cause effects similar to what Weasley demonstrated for us in its form as a Forgetfulness Potion. And five points from Gryffindor for your idiocy."

Weasley had apparently proved his incompetence later in the lesson when he and his partner, Neville Longbottom, were sent to the infirmary after their potion _exploded, _destroying a cauldron and covering both of them in angry, painful boils_._

Shinji's mouth fell open for a moment in astonishment, before managing to shut it with an audible click.

To be dressed down on the first day of class, _and_ end up in the infirmary? They weren't dead, granted but…

'…_so there is danger here after all.'_

Danger that only hard work and concentration could forestall. His instincts as a would-be magus wouldn't guide him wrong in that regard. Plus, with Snape seemingly a strict teacher who suffered no challenge in his own classroom, and had little patience for idiocy, he thought the man rather worthy of respect.

"Not a bad class though?" he asked to follow up, as he spread out some of the mulch – a mixture of woodchips and moss, on the soil, taking care not to cover any of the smaller plants.

"Well…no," Potter replied. A teacher had gone out of his way to defend him, after all, in one of the first times of his life. And Potions was…interesting. "No wands and spells though," he added with a touch of disappointment. Snape had been rather clear that the class would involve little wand-waving.

Shinji laughed softly as he saw some of the stragglers finally beginning to move towards the bags of mulch. He was less than surprised to see Sokaris working with Granger, and Greengrass with Davis, but the others he didn't have a good a read for.

"That explains why your House looks so disappointed," Shinji noted, smiling crookedly. "But Charms was the same way. Professor Flitwick wants us to learn why things work before we learn how to do them."

"Oh," Potter said, a little disappointed to hear this. "Maybe Transfiguration? Or…Defense against the Dark Arts?"

"Maybe," Shinji replied. He really didn't know. "We can always hope, right?"

"Let's hope so then."

The two shared a wry smile as they continued to work at a fairly efficient clip. Harry was small, but he'd done his fair share of yard work for the Dursleys before, and Shinji was nothing if not willing to work hard for a worthy goal.

Unfortunately, they didn't have the opportunity to talk further, as a blond boy – Malfoy – sidled up to the two. He was flanked by two thickset, mean looking boys, each of which was carrying a bag of mulch, and a fairly pretty dark-haired girl who was crouched down and doing most of the actual mulching of the group of four

"Ah, Potter – and Matou as well!" the blond greeted warmly. Shinji was immediately on guard – no one was _that_ familiar unless he wanted something. "Shall we work together and get this…unsightly business taken care of?"

Shinji just made a gesture for the blond to do as he wished, whereupon the other fell into step with the mulching duo. Perhaps the effect was to make him seem regal, above such meaningless work, but Shinji found the pretense annoying.

Why make the offer to work together if you weren't going to do any of the actual work, after all?

"The name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," the blond said in belated greeting. "I have to say, Matou, you are a rare credit to the wizarding world," Malfoy continued, noting how the foreign boy was stooped and mulching with his own hands. "After all, you recognize the greatness of Slytherin, although you come from the other side of the world."

…for some reason, 'other side of the world' almost sounded like 'the savage wilds' in Malfoy's mouth. Or maybe Shinji was just imagining things.

Shinji just gave a non-committal grunt.

"But of course you do," Draco noted with a sniff. "After all, you're in Ravenclaw – the other respectable house here at Hogwarts. Certainly more than Gryffindor or, gods, Hufflepuff." Draco seemed to shudder. "If I was sorted into there—" He quieted briefly as Professor Sprout – the Head of Hufflepuff – walked by, observing them critically. "—I probably would have left."

While Shinji agreed that Ravenclaw and Slytherin were probably the best choices of the four, he wasn't about to say that the others were worthless. After all, there was a certain value in bravery and hard work. That, and Draco somehow managed to rub him the wrong way. He reminded Shinji of himself, and not in a good way – Malfoy seemed to want people to believe he was in charge.

But unlike Shinji, he lacked the power back it up.

"Hard work has a value of its own, Malfoy," he said reproachfully, more to disagree with the blond than anything else. To make a point, he looked over at Pansy and smiled at her, since she was helping to speed things along. Even Crabbe and Goyle were, after a fashion.

Malfoy...not so much.

"Well, of course," Draco acknowledged impatiently. "But come now, there's no need to be modest. Everyone's already talking about how you're a wizard from the east who can already do non-verbal, wandless magic. That's not something you can do with just hard work – you have to have talent. So…Pureblood or Halfblood?"

While Shinji appreciated the comment about having talent, he didn't like the thought of someone demeaning the work he put into learning his Craft.

"Hm?"

"Oh, come now," Draco responded, unsure of what to make of the foreigner's lack of reply. "I'm sure you couldn't have done all that as a mudblood."

"Mudblood?" Shinji echoed, frowning. "What does that mean?"

Now it was Draco's turn to frown.

"Oh, right. You come from the East," Draco realized, slightly chagrined, though he plowed on. "It means someone's family isn't of our kind. That they aren't Magical, I mean." He added this a hair later, remembering that since Shinji was a foreigner, he might very well take the "not of our kind" comment the wrong way. "I'm a pureblood myself – I can trace my magical lineage back almost to the time of the Founders."

"I see," Shinji said, getting an unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

"Just between you and me, I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" Malfoy related almost conspiratorially. "Mudbloods, I mean. They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways."

"Our?" Shinji echoed, only there was an edge to his voice at the blond's overfamiliarity. This was turning out like the encounter with Granger, only even worse, given his mood today. "Traditions are different in the East, you know."

"Ah, sorry," But the blond didn't look very sorry. "Just…look. Over in the East, where you're from, family matters, right?"

"Family matters," Shinji agreed, thinking of the Association and how certain families were pretty much nobles. But… "Talent matters more."

That was one of his sore spots, given he would have been the heir to a powerful family of magi, one stretching back hundreds upon hundreds of years – except for the fact he had no circuits.

"Yes, yes. Just as we say in Slytherin," Malfoy approved, thinking he was finally on the right track. "But as I was saying, I think magic should be kept in the old wizarding families. Why, some of these others…they don't even know about magic until they get the letter. You, I can make an exception for, since you're a foreign wizard, but mudbloods like Granger? Feh."

Shinji could feel wood chips digging into his palms as his hands clenched. He wanted nothing more than just make Malfoy shut up. Ofuda would be tempting – but well, his hands were otherwise occupied and using ofuda on a student without permission – in a classroom no less - would probably be problematic.

'_Keep calm. Keep calm. Keep calm.'_

"Malfoy, I think it would be best if you stopped standing around," Shinji said, a wicked idea popping into his head as he noted Professor Sprout coming around again. "After all, you shouldn't make a pretty girl like Parkinson do all the work for you…right Professor Sprout?"

Pansy, for her part, flushed at the exotic boy calling her "pretty" and worked just a little faster.

"Yes, well said, Matou," Professor Sprout said, hearing the tail end of the exchange. She'd noticed how quickly the two boys had set to work, and how others had taken their example from them. "Five points to you and Potter each for your hard work. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, I suggest you do as he says. The greenhouse won't mulch itself, you know."

Malfoy's mouth closed in a click, his face tinged pink with embarrassment as he took a handful of mulch from Goyle's bag and dropped it on the soil. He felt humiliated – but right now, he was powerless to do anything about it.

He could see why Potter hadn't said anything, since Slytherins were…_discouraged _from arguing outside the House, and he knew Matou but…he'd been made to lose face. This. This was unacceptable. This _foreigner_ had humiliated him. _Him_. Why, who did this Matou boy think he was, snubbing the son of the man who held the Ministry in the palm of his hand? Why, he would…

"My father will hear of this," he hissed, stooping next to Shinji. "You'll see. You'll be sorry you ever—"

Shinji, hearing this, pulled a Rin. That is, he laughed in Malfoy's face.

It was too hilarious not to. This…boy was threatening to sic his father on him? One of these practitioners of Witchcraft? Did this failure of a Slytherin think this was going to bother him in any way when he had grown up with monsters like Matou Zouken?

Malfoy, for his part, was a little unnerved by this. He was not used to this reaction. No one had _ever_ laughed in his face. People got angry. People became frightened. People apologized. People ignored it, maybe.

But no one ever laughed. Not at the name Malfoy. Not at a _threat_.

True, this Matou boy was a foreigner, but even he shouldn't be able to just ignore a threat that easily.

But this boy from the East was talking now, his grey eyes laughing in cruel, cruel mirth.

"Let me tell you a secret, Malfoy," Shinji whispered, leaning close to the blond, as the other leaned back to protect his personal space. "My _grandfather_ could eat your father alive."

Quite literally, too, though he didn't take the time to explain _that_ to Malfoy. Instead, he did the most terrifying thing of all.

He _smiled._

That day, Malfoy realized two things. The first was that in every other species, those who casually showed their teeth were dangerous, were _predators; _the other was that discretion was sometimes the better part of valor.

He fled – over to another row, with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.

Pansy, however, remained behind, her mind a whirr as she did a bit of quick mental arithmetic.

If this boy from the east not only stood up to Malfoy but dared to laugh in his face wasn't bluffing, then his family must be powerful indeed. That and he had powerful friends in his own right, Pansy observed, glancing over at the hard working Potter, who had just listened to the exchange quietly.

Yes. Potter had listened and watched like a snake in the grass, allowing someone else to strike down a foe. …Potter was dangerous indeed, proving more Slytherin than Malfoy. Now Pansy Parkinson was many things, but no one had ever accused her of being stupid. And well, one knew the old adage about friends and enemies…

"Pass me some mulch, please," she said to Shinji, who smiled and angled the bag so the vivacious girl could take some. After all, there was always work to go around.

* * *

><p>After Herbology broke for lunch, with the greenhouse finally mulched, Shinji had quietly let Potter know he'd work out a time for 'studying', before leaving him to walk away with Parkinson of all people. He didn't exactly know what her game was, but the more allies Potter had in his house, the better, especially as he knew it would probably push the boy to do better.<p>

…just as he knew that Potter was unlikely to talk about his past with anyone in his House, if most of them had views similar to Malfoy.

Granger annoyed him with her challenges, but that was something he could live with. Malfoy though – his overfamiliarity and presumptuousness came just short of pissing him off, and he was glad he had been able to get the other boy into trouble.

And then came potions, where Professor Snape was, true to the warnings of the Slytherins, grilling them to make sure they had read in advance.

"Sokaris. What does Golpalott's Third Law state?" Professor Snape asked the purple-haired Ravenclaw who was seated next to Shinji.

"Golpalott's Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components," she said blandly, as if this was absolutely basic for her.

…and it probably was, now that Shinji thought about it.

Shinji was very glad for this, given what he'd heard about Potter's potion class. He had no desire to work with someone with no idea of what they were doing, as having his cauldron melted and getting sent to the infirmary covered boils was not how he wanted to end his day. Oh, yes, there was Defense against the Dark Arts, but he serious doubted there was going to be any actual Defense on the first day.

"Matou then," Snape moved on, cold black eyes staring at the boy from the East, "what would I get if I combined snake fangs, billywig stings, and Wolfsbane in a potion?"

"The Wideye Potion," Shinji responded, having skimmed the book after hearing about Weasley's…misfortune. "The antidote to the Draught of Living Death."

"Hm," was all Snape said before turning to a redhead – a Hufflepuff, if Shinji remembered correctly. "Bones, tell me a use for Dragon Liver."

"Doxycide, sir?"

"Was that a question or an answer, Bones?"

"An answer, sir," the redhead replied, a bit nervously.

"And Macmillan," Professor Snape said at last, his gaze fixing on the blond boy. "What is the effect of the Wiggenweld Potion?"

"It…awakens people from magical sleep?"

"Hmm, good – at least you lot bothered to open your textbooks. Perhaps there is hope for you yet," the Potions Master allowed. "As you know, you are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking." He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but his students caught every word – especially after the impromptu grilling they'd just endured. "Many of you will hardly believe this is magic, since there is no foolish wand-waving here, but this art allows one to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you are willing to learn."

Severus Snape was of course the head of Slytherin House. As such, he wanted his students to have a drive of their own, to succeed and excel because they had ambition – not because he told them the answers.

That was why he quizzed his classes on the first day of class, why he didn't cover theory in class, but allowed students to read the particulars of that on their own, while he covered the practical side in class, observing their aptitude, their preparation and so forth.

After all, what was the point of giving his students all the answers? They would become complacent, thinking someone would always feed them what they needed to know for an exam, a competition, for life. Well, the world didn't work that way, and he had achieved his own Potions Mastery through sheer hard work – and perhaps a modicum of talent.

Still, how were his students supposed to come into their own if they were…coddled, as he considered the gentle treatment many of his colleagues gave them? How would they learn without danger, without…risk?

How would they be ready for life if they would not take responsibility for their success?

He was well aware that many students grumbled about his teaching methods, but they were effective, sorting the wheat from the chaff. When it came to something like potions, lectures weren't what worked – students would forget what he'd taught them and cause more accidents. No, it was the quizzing, the tests, the having to work without a wand or any other kind of…safety net. They didn't want to be humiliated, and even less to be hurt – so they learned, learned into the marrow of their bones.

Snape had been especially concerned about three students this year – Potter and the two foreign students from abroad, especially after the stunt the boy from the East had pulled. It smacked of wanting attention – and Severus Snape had loathed gloryhounds ever since his first run-in with James Potter and his…Marauders during his very first year at Hogwarts – no on the Hogwarts Express. They'd hounded him, insulted him, turned his spells against him, taken everything he cared about from him. They'd even caused him to lose the friendship of Lily, his first and only person he'd really cared about – and to turn to the Dark Lord for _revenge._

And then had come that blasted prophecy, and everything had gone wrong. Dumbledore had failed to keep Lily safe. The Potters' secret-keeper betrayed them. And the only one left alive in the house at Godric's Hollow was _her_ son.

Harry Potter.

That boy who had come to Hogwarts this year, who had sat in his class and been sorted in to his House. What was he to do when Harry Potter's appearance – his face like his father's, but eyes…eyes like Lily's – brought the memories flooding back in force. He had never stopped loving Lily, and mourned her to this day. Seeing her son, the son she had with _Potter_ was pain…pain worse than the most powerful _Cruciatus_ he had ever endured.

And if he was harsher on the boy, using three questions on him instead of one, what of it? His mother had been a genius at potions; his father not so, and he'd wanted to see if the boy was one or the other.

But…neither had been true.

Potter had failed to answer the question about the Draught of Living Death – which Snape had never really thought he would get correct anyway, since that was a Seventh Year potion, but had known the others – the ones covered in the first year textbook.

So…competent, and not above opening a book despite his notoriety – perhaps there was hope for him yet.

But there had been something else – something strange. The _look_ on Potter's face when Snape had given the Weasley boy a dressing down the likes of which he hoped the Gryffindor would not soon forget – a look of surprise and gratitude?

That had shaken the Potions Master more than he expected, though he had learned to keep what he felt from his face over the years. Besides, that had been overwhelmed by the subsequent accident by Weasley and Longbottom, which had given him the opportunity to act as a stern, unforgiving taskmaster.

Being the villain was more fun anyway.

With this group of students, including two from abroad, he wanted to make sure they were competent – and so they seemed, in theory. Indeed, Golpalott's Third Law was normally learned in advanced potions, as was the formula for the Wideye potion.

The other two – the Hufflepuffs – had been asked about first year potions, and they had gotten those easily enough. Snape expected, _demanded_ no less, and often enough his favorite Houses to teach were Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs because they sought knowledge and were willing to work hard.

Gryffindors…the less said about them the better. They didn't study. They didn't learn. They were rude, arrogant, and proud – and they called it bravery.

But enough with that, Snape thought, as he set his students to work on a simple potion to cure boils.

To his pleasure, no cauldrons were melted this class, and he even had a pair – the foreigners – demonstrating proper technique and producing a fine potion at the end of it. Not perfect, but closer than he'd seen from any other students so far. He was tempted for a moment to examine their minds and see what they had learned, but after brushing the mind of one of them and running into what seemed a wall of pitch black darkness – he thought better of it – they had obviously had some kind of mental training, and it would be unwise to be caught.

Still, he said nothing, merely acknowledging the quality of their potion with a lack of comment – though he noted the subtle tightening of the purple-haired girl's expression as she turned the potion in. Clearly, she thought she hadn't performed as well as she'd like.

Which was…interesting indeed.

It almost made him laugh. Almost.

For who would have guessed that the most Slytherin of his students, the most ambitious and driven – would not be in Slytherin at all?

* * *

><p>Defense against the Dark Arts was different than expected. Yes, the classroom smalled of garlic, and yes he wore a silly turban, but in the last few minutes, Professor Quirrell had made it a point to point out that while most feared the Unforgivable Curses, the mere fact that something was not a Dark Art, or Unforgivable, did not mean it could not control, hurt, or kill.<p>

Yes, the three Unforgivables were powerful. No, that did not make them the end-all, be-all of the Dark Arts, for a clever person would likely use a different spell - a much more efficient spell for the same end result. Still, _Imperio_, _Cruciatus_, and _Avada Kedavra _had been covered, along with their effects. Utter domination of a person's will. The infliction of excruciating pain on an unwilling subject, with no magical counter. Instant death, unblockable by any shield charm.

They terrified many – but as Quirrell mentioned – there were counters. The Cruciatus and Killing curses could be blocked by a conjured object, for example; by taking shelter behind something solid; or by "fencing" with spell beams – that was, by attacking these spells head with other spells.

The last was particularly tricky, given that it required great precision to make sure the spell-beams connected – and Quirrell had promised a demonstration at some point – though not, he added, by trying to block _Avada Kedavra_ itself – _if_ his students paid attention.

He'd closed with this – that the most dangerous enemy one could face, the thing which one had to fear most of all was not any dark creature, or even a dark wizard, but fear itself. Fear which paralyzed otherwise capable wizards, fear which caused competent individuals to do foolish things, fear which caused age-old structures and societies to _burn._


	10. Butterfly Effects

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10.<strong> Butterfly Effects

In his office, Dumbledore closed his eyes as his mind went back to the interview with Sybill Trelawney – an applicant for the post of Divination Professor - so many years ago, and the utter farce it had been. And a farce it had been – it had been obvious from the start that she had had none of her renowned ancestor's divination skills, something which had disappointed him, as her relation to the renowned Cassandra was the only reason he had agreed to meet with her in the first place.

Frankly, he'd been planning on discontinuing the subject anyway, as Divination was obscure and inaccurate when performed by most, especially those born without an innate gift for prophecy. As such, while one could certainly teach methods of divining the future or gathering insights into future events using various rituals and tools, the practical value of what was learned was minimal.

Now, if a Seer was to take up the position of instructor, perhaps that would be different, as one who possessed an Inner Eye could certainly check a prediction or verify if a student had a gift for the subject. Alas…he had found Sybill wanting for the position, and had just started telling her so when she entered a true prophetic trance.

The words she uttered then held power, making his hair nearly stand on end. He'd heard prophecies before, but this…

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... _

_born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... _

_and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... _

_and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies"_

This had been more relevant than most he'd heard…as it meant the war might be over at last. Tom Riddle and his followers had claimed so many lives, sunk to such depths of depravity, almost brought Magical Britain to its knees.

No outside help had come in that war – but thankfully no threats either. During the Grindelwald conflict, Albus Dumbledore had learned that at least one magical organization existed outside the Wizarding World.

They called themselves the Association, and they were utterly ruthless – even more so than Grindelwald himself. They lacked morals, consciences, human feelings; they cared not for such things, only that the existence of magic was not exposed to the Muggle world.

That was how he had met one of their agents.

While the man who had been Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts was taking a rare dinner in the Hog's Head tavern, a cloaked man who had identified himself as an Enforcer of the Association had sat down across from him.

He had been about to tell the man to leave him in peace, when this Enforcer casually mentioned Gellert Grindelwald, wondering what Dumbledore thought of his philosophy of atrocities "for the greater good."

Dumbledore tried to dismiss it – but then the man had brought up Dumbledore's own acquaintance with the dark wizard (and he had not forgotten how he had said _wizard_ with such…disdain) – and wondered if the reason why he, known as one of the most powerful of _wizardkind_, had not gone to fight his old friend, was that he still agreed with Grindelwald's actions – tacitly supported them, even.

When Dumbledore sputtered an angry denial of this, the Enforcer had only smiled – an expression that had been anything but friendly.

"Words are easy, Dumbledore," the man had said then. "You have had ample opportunity to face Gellert Grindelwald in battle – and yet you have not. Some would say that this proves where your loyalties lie – but the Association is not so unreasonable. Thus we offer you an ultimatum: stop your comrade from revealing the existence of Magic."

"Or what?" the powerful wizard had replied sharply. No one – no one – had the gall to threaten him.

"Or we will do so in your place," the man had replied with utter certainty. "We will end the threat of Grindelwald by killing him and everyone he has ever known, to make sure his vision will have no heirs, starting with you and ending with the students of both Hogwarts and the Drumstrang Institute."

"_Stupefy!" _Dumbledore had roared, furious at the threat to his students, a stream of red light hitting the man square in the chest, but the man was utterly unfazed.

_But that's…impossible._

"Try that again, Dumbledore and we will consider that a rejection of our terms," the Enforcer had said chillingly, as he turned his back and walked out. "Even should you succeed, should I not report back, the Association will consider you an ally of Grindelwald and act accordingly."

Albus Dumbledore had been tempted – tempted beyond words – to stop the man even so, to capture and question him, see what black arts he practiced – but he did not.

Could not.

Not when every student at Hogwarts might die for his curiosity. Hundreds of bodies laid out in the ruins of the castle, each of them staring at him with accusing eyes. Ariana's eyes…

He couldn't do it.

As much as he sought knowledge, sought to go beyond anything anyone knew, to delve into the secrets of magic – he stayed his hand _for the greater good._

For what was one life when pitted against ten, a hundred, thousands?

Nothing.

And so Albus Dumbledore had let the Enforcer go, and had fulfilled the Association's request by taking the field against Grindelwald – had dueled his old friend in a fight some called legendary, had defeated him and claimed the Elder Wand – with the help of Fawkes, his phoenix familiar, which had taken a Killing Curse meant for him – and had stopped the Great Wizarding War.

In its wake, he was hailed as a hero, but he knew better.

Deep down, he knew the only reason he'd fought his old friend was because he was afraid. Afraid for what would happen if did not. He was no hero – he'd just done what he needed to do.

He'd never heard from the Association again after that. He'd gone looking for whatever information he could, seeing what he could find about this organization that had all but given the wizarding world itself an ultimatum. But all he'd found were mostly rumors and fragmented pieces of information. And yet even those added together to form a fairly scary picture. In the ancient history of the wizarding world, a group had refused to hide from persecution, thinking that for wizards to isolate themselves from society was the more dangerous of the choices before them. The very oldest records spoke of them fighting back against some enemy, hiding among the Muggles, developing powerful Dark Arts to use against their foes. It was believed that they had fought against an extention of the Church at the time, though information from the period was lacking, since the Wizarding World had been almost completely removed from the other elements of the supernatural world. Now, if this group had survived and had no use for wizardkind in general - why, who knew what they were capable of. They might all be the equivalent of dark wizards, with no use for the rest of the wizarding world. What he had read of them and how they were bent on developing their own arts further than anyone had done, in the very tradition of the Dark, seemed to prove this, as did their objection to Grindelwald being that he might reveal magic to the Muggles, not anything more moral in nature. The Enforcer they had sent had been decidedly an amoral man at that.

But he hadn't found any other evidence of them, despite his wanderings, as they didn't seem to exist in the Wizarding world - in wizarding society in general. Possibly, very possibly, they worked among the Muggles, hid among them, _lived_ among them, making muggle-baiting much more dangerous than one might originally assume.

In such encounters, he'd come across practitioners of other arts, crossing paths with a few now and then, but he had no great knowledge of how they worked. His focus as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards had been on the magic of wizards and witches, and his concurrent positions as Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot had left him too busy to pursue other inquiries in that line.

Nevertheless, he had been very cautious over the next few years, wondering if he would hear from them again, wondering if he should try and make contact. But then had come the rise of Tom Riddle – the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort – who reminded him much – too much – of himself, and priorities had changed. Brilliant, powerful, even arrogant, believing he had the right to rule even while trapped, Dumbledore had not been blind to the parallels between Riddle and himself.

Several times, he had tried to warn Tom from his path – but this only made Riddle more guarded, more secretive. And in the end, Tom had risen up, claiming the loyalty of the beings the Wizarding World had cast out.

Tom – Lord Voldemort by then – had nearly destroyed Wizarding Society, leaving only Hogwarts untouched. Many said it was because Dumbledore was the only wizard that Voldemort had ever feared – and with the Elder Wand, he was indeed formidable – but Dumbledore himself knew better.

_Tom was baiting him._

For his wayward student knew how he'd resisted taking up arms against Grindelwald, and how for all of his power, Dumbledore knew the weight of his crimes. His complicity, as it were. And even as Dumbledore's presence kept Hogwarts safe, with the Order fighting in his stead, it mattered not.

Tom steadily rose in power, grinding down the forces of those who would oppose him, as Dumbledore could only watch.

If he left Hogwarts…

The vision swam before his eyes. Hundreds of bodies, burned and blackened. Hundreds more laying still in death caused by the killing curse.

He couldn't abandon them – and so instead the world burned, because Albus Dumbledore himself was afraid.

The prophecy had been a boon – shortly thereafter the War had come to an end with the death of Voldemort, and only one family had had to die, or so it seemed. But Dumbledore knew better – the Prophecy meant that Harry Potter's destiny would be entwined with that of Riddle's, but…

"…_the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not..."_

That part of the prophecy bothered him immensely. As his equal could mean so many things, after all. Did it mean equal in power? Equal in skill? Or equal…in desire, in want, in purpose?

That last thought was chilling.

The world did not need another Riddle.

Hence, Dumbledore had done what he could to keep the young Harry Potter from following in his steps – from following in Riddle's steps. Done what he could to keep the young Harry Potter unaware of magic, unaware of his fame, unaware of the legacy of Voldemort and his followers, while still protecting him from those who might wish to kill him even now.

But…had it all been in vain?

After all, Harry Potter had been Sorted into Slytherin, the house of the ambitious and cunning, with those of the House of Snakes either banding to his side – Parkinson, Greengrass, Davis to name three – or being cast aside.

A notable example of the latter, Draco Malfoy, the young son of Lucius Malfoy, the man who had been Riddle's chief lieutenant and even now controlled the Ministry. The boy seemed uncomfortable with the Boy-Who-Lived, making a point to stay away from him at lunch.

…he thought he had been careful, but the Boy-Who-Lived was already gaining followers. Merely a single day had passed, and yet the balance of power in Slytherin was already changing, even if Harry should not have the capacity to use his fame in such a way.

And then there was the boy who had applauded Harry's Sorting. A boy whose hair was a distinctive shade of black that almost seemed blue.

Had he been from Russia, Dumbledore would have worried, as that color of hair had been a trait of the long-vanished Zolgen family, but he was from Japan. Yet, despite almost certainly not knowing of the Boy-Who-Lived, he had aligned himself with Harry Potter very quickly.

…it was, to say the least, concerning.

* * *

><p>After a long first day of classes – and somewhat better meals, Shinji had finally managed to relax as he returned to Ravenclaw Tower. True to his word, Flitwick had prepared two of the private study rooms of the Tower for himself and Sokaris, showing him where the hidden entrances were in the common room, how to tap along the wall to reveal them, and of course, giving them their personal keys.<p>

Given the so-called protection against intrusion on the Tower itself – which required students to answer riddles of all thing (_What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?_ Being the current one) to gain access to the Common Room, Shinji was convinced that security wasn't actually a concern inside Hogwarts, as anyone clever enough, or with a sense of logic could enter Ravenclaw Tower.

Then again, the Sorting Hat had said that this… 'Wizarding World' had gone into hiding to escape the Holy Church, hadn't it? If Hogwarts was built during that time, they would be concerned about threats from without, not within.

And well, perfect security was impossible with eleven-year old children anyway.

Which meant…_this was all one big mind game._

The Sorting of people into four houses.

The "passwords."

All of it was like telling someone "you can't go here" or "you shouldn't do this."

…when anyone with a shred of common sense would know that making something forbidden only made someone more likely to want to do it.

Which made him wonder why Dumbledore had mentioned the Third Floor Corridor being off-limits, something that would no doubt make even students curious. There was something there – something he wanted someone to go after.

But what?

Shinji knew he didn't have all the piece of the puzzle. There was much of this world he didn't really understand, so he'd have to ask. There were plenty of people still milling about in the Common Room, and he didn't want to show them where the study rooms were anyway.

One particularly large group was camped out on the couches by the fire, talking energetically about the day's affairs – the excitement of the first day of classes and such. Some were seated at the study desks, chatting about Hogwarts, seeing magic for the first time, or other such.

And the third – well the third was most interesting to him, with as it consisted of two prefects - Robert Hillard and Penelope Clearwater if he remembered correctly – seated across from each other on the great armchairs.

"…Gringotts? Did you hear?" the prefect known as Penelope Clearwater was saying. "A high-security vault too."

"…go on, pull the other one," Hillard said, clearly skeptical.

"No, really. It's been all over the Prophet!" Clearwater insisted, her animated features quite striking by firelight.

"…fine then, who did it?" the dark haired Hillard replied. "I mean, the goblins should have caught the thief and strung him up by now, right?"

"Well…that's the thing…" Penelope hedged, hesitating.

"You're saying _no one_ was caught yet?" Robert asked incredulously. "There hasn't been a single person in the history of the Wizarding World who has managed to steal something from Gringotts. Well…except the Ministry itself, when they seized control of the bank following one of the Goblin Rebellions. But that aside, it's the safest place in the world. Except, maybe Hogwarts."

"…he didn't actually steal anything."

Hillard's eyebrows shot for the heavens – and made a fairly credible attempt at it, too.

"Wait, you're telling me someone _broke into Gringotts – _one of their high security vaults, no less, and didn't steal anything_?"_

"Not for lack of trying. The goblins say the vault that was broken into had been emptied earlier in the day."

"Merlin," Hillard breathed.

Shinji frowned. He recognized the name of course, the name of one of the greatest magi of the past, court "wizard" to King Arthur himself, but the way Hillard had said it sounded off – it sounded more like someone would say "God" or "Kami."

Which bothered him greatly - after all, it wasn't as if magi swore by Zelretch (or the Root), or onmyouji by Abe no Seimei.

"Yeah, it makes you wonder if somehow, You-Know-Who didn't die," Penelope said quietly, shivering despite being close to the fire. "If he just went into hiding and is recovering his strength. After all, who but a powerful Dark wizard would have the power to break those wards?"

"Well, it could be a new Dark wizard too," Robert said, more for argument's sake than anything else.

"…you're not helping, Robert," Penelope replied, frowning. The thought of yet another Dark wizard rising was enough to make the stomach turn. After what You-Know-Who had done, the terrible things he had wrought so that people feared his very _name_…

But the other prefect had thought of something.

"You don't think…maybe whatever it is, it's at Hogwarts now?" the dark-haired older boy asked slowly, frowning himself now. "I mean, why make that corridor on the Third Floor – you know, the place where they normally have Defense – out of bounds…unless you were hiding something there."

"Robert…" the blonde said warningly, only for the dark-haired prefect to shake his head.

"No, think about it, Dumbledore didn't even tell us a reason we're not allowed to go there," Robert continued, brows knitting together as he concentrated. "We know why the Forbidden Forest is forbidden – it's full of dangerous beasts. And when something is closed for maintenance or repairs, they let us know. But no reason this time. Unless he just warned the Gryffindors, because they're just the sort to be reckless enough to go there otherwise?"

"No…Percy didn't mention anything," Penelope said slowly. "He was pretty annoyed about that himself, actually."

"…so, it's a trap. At Hogwarts," Robert stated, his face going completely flat. He looked around, seeing Shinji standing nearby and gestured for him to come closer. "Matou, was it? You're from Japan, right? Don't know much about Magical Britain?"

Shinji just shook his head, wondering where this was going.

"Ok, consider this then," the prefect said in a particularly dry tone of voice. "If you were trying to set a trap for a thief, but you didn't know who the thief was, how would you go about doing it?"

"…is this about the off-limits corridor on the Third Floor?" Shinji asked, causing Robert to shoot Penelope a triumphant look of _'I told you so.'_

"We don't know," Penelope said, shooting her fellow prefect a more annoyed look. "Robert seems to think so, though."

"Penelope, a first-year can see it," the dark-haired prefect groaned, shaking his head. "Look, I have as much faith in the Headmaster as anyone, but this is going a bit far, don't you think?"

"Well…he did say it was out of bounds…"

"…and when has that ever stopped _anyone_?" the older prefect complained. "You know how many people we find on our patrols late at night. And I know bloody well you used part of yours to meet up with Percy, so don't try to be a saint."

Penelope Clearwater went red – an effect made quite dramatic by her very pale skin.

"Well, fine, what if you're right?" she asked, looking at her fellow prefect sharply. "What if it's a trap? Who's it a trap for? One of the teachers? I mean, with the exception of Quirrell—"

"—who was the Muggle studies professor for a number of years—"

"—everyone else has held their post for a number of years. And it can't be one of the students. I mean, imagine – a Dark wizard masquerading as a student – that would be ridiculous."

"Well, it can't be Snape," Hillard mused, shaking his head. "No Dark wizard would be _that_ obvious about being one. You don't think he suspects Flitwick? I mean, our Head of House being part-goblin and all…"

"No, I don't think Dumbledore is one to discriminate like that," Penelope crinkled her nose at the thought, unhappy that her Head of House – a good Professor and a good man – might be coming under suspicion. "I don't know. I just can't think of a good reason for it."

"Well, I agree with you, but then Dumbledore has been getting odder every year. I mean 'Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!'? Really, Penelope?"

"…you might have a point," the blonde prefect conceded. Then her eyes narrowed. "But you're not going to go looking for trouble, are you, Robert?"

"Oh me? Oh no, not at all," Hillard replied glibly, trying his best to look innocent and not at all like the kid who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Matou, don't learn from him," Penelope said, addressing the first year from the East. "Robert's a troublemaker at the best of times. He's not up to the standards of the Weasley Twins, but—"

"—for Merlin's sake, Penelope, it was _one time_," Robert argued back, groaning as he recalled the _incident_ she spoke of. "Old Percy's hair looked better in blue and grey anyway."

"It did not! Robert Hillard, you…you prankster!" the blonde prefect exclaimed indignantly, drawing the attention of the other students. More quietly, she continued, her voice softening. "That aside, we're prefects. We're supposed to be setting an example to the rest of the students. What kind of example would it be if you went looking for trouble on the third floor and got hurt – or killed?"

Robert looked away.

"I suppose you're right – but you know the Weasley twins are going to try it anyway," he muttered, shaking his head. "Inveterate troublemakers."

"I'll get Percy to keep them out of trouble," Penelope said frankly, her lips twisting a bit as she remembered some of their antics. "You stay out of trouble too, alright, Matou? I know you're still pretty new but you're getting a lot of attention already, since you apparently know the Boy-Who-Lived."

"You even defended him pretty well last night in the Common Room," Hillard noted, smiling with approval at the younger Ravenclaw. "Something about how his ambition was to become the hero everyone saw him as. Impressive…" He frowned then. "– though I can't say the same about what I heard you did later."

…_ah. _

"You had her permission, so I can't really say much about it, but…Ravenclaws are supposed to look out for each other, you hear me? Even if being a bit too much of a know-it-all isn't really a good thing."

"Robert, you weren't any different back then, you know," Penelope said then, her voice laced with disapproval.

"And that's why I was the Weasley twins' favorite target for a while, until I learned to live a little," the other prefect responded. "I would have been better off if I'd listened for a while before just speaking up – especially when I wasn't sure I was right."

Penelope just huffed.

Shinji was getting the impression that this was an argument that the two had gone through a number of times, though they seemed friendly enough.

"Anyway, Matou, something you wanted to ask?" Hillard continued. "Couldn't help but notice you just standing there, not sure of who to talk to. And since you answered one of my questions, turnabout is fair play."

Well, now that the prefect asked.

"Actually I do have a question," Shinji spoke up. "What's a Mudblood?"

Both of the prefects frowned as he asked that, with some of the others in the room looking over at him sharply.

"…where did you hear that word?" Hillard asked, his eyes burning with sudden annoyance and suspicion. He hoped it wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived who was using that kind of language, because that would just bode ill for everyone involved.

"A Slytherin called Draco Malfoy," Shinji responded, thinking back to his encounter with the boy. "He called Granger one, said that people who didn't know about magic didn't deserve it, unlike purebloods."

"Did he really?" the prefect murmured, grip tightening on the armchair. "And what did you say?"

"…I got him in trouble, since I didn't like how he was standing around with Crabbe and Goyle and making Pansy do all of his work for him," Shinji replied frankly. The encounter had been satisfying – but what had happened after…?

"He wasn't happy about that, was he?" Hillard queried. He'd heard things about the Malfoy family and how proud they were, how they believed they were better than anyone else.

"He threatened to sic his father on me," Shinji admitted, which left both prefects almost scowling now. To use Lucius Malfoy's influence against someone was…serious.

"…and what did you do then?" Penelope inquired. She was honestly quite curious about this, given how little gossip _ever_ came out of Slytherin house.

"I laughed in his face."

Everyone in the room froze for a second. A very long second that stretched on and on and on.

"You…laughed in his face?" Robert echoed, vaguely incredulous.

"I thought Slytherins were supposed to be ambitious and cunning, but if that's so I don't know how Malfoy got sorted there," Shinji commented, shrugging. "Potter's ambition I understand, and he works hard. Malfoy's lazy, unambitious, and wouldn't know what cunning was if it hit him in the face."

Some of the other students gaped. For someone to just casually insult a member of the Malfoy family was virtually unheard of.

"Still," Robert said, looking faintly disturbed. "You should be careful. Lucius Malfoy is a powerful man."

"What's the worst he can do, expel me?" Shinji asked, more through bravado than anything else. "I could just go to _Mahoutokoro _instead_."_

'…_I'd probably even like it more…'_

"…right," the prefect said, sighing. "Well, to answer your question, mudblood is a foul name for someone with no magical parents, usually used by pure-bloods – people who can trace their lineage back through many generations of wizards. It means their blood is dirty and t-taints those they mix with." He looked hard at the Matou boy. "Don't let me catch you using that word. Ever."

"I wouldn't lower myself to Malfoy's level," Shinji answered, now thinking even less of the blond. "Even if he is in the same house as Harry. Besides, if he's calling his father all the time, he must be pretty weak himself."

"Maybe. I've used up enough of your time, Matou, unless you have any more questions?"

Shinji shook his head.

He'd gotten the answers he wanted, even if the information about the third-floor corridor didn't reassure him at all. With that done, it was time to retire to bed, especially since he didn't see Sokaris around – not that he thought monopolizing her time was a good thing. He was still catching up on sleep from the first night, after all.

And so Shinji turned towards the wall where the study rooms were kept, only for someone to walk up behind him.

"You stood up to Malfoy when he called me a Mudblood," the manner-of-fact voice of Hermione Granger spoke, almost confused. "Why?"

Hermione was sure the boy from the East had no reason to do so. He'd demonstrated his annoyance with her clearly enough the first night, so why had he done this? By all indications, he was probably a pure-blood too, with his abilities - his non-verbal, wandless casting, which Flitwick had said only most powerful could accomplish.

"I didn't do it for you, Granger," Matou Shinji said after a few moments, without turning around. "I did it because Malfoy was being a prat."

Hermione blinked at this. That was about what she'd expected. Still, whatever reason he had done it for, he had defended her so…

"Thank you all the same," she said quietly.

Matou…confused her. Made her feel like she was nothing one moment, and someone who meant something in the next. And that was something she'd never had to deal with before. She had always been able to classify people into neat little boxes - but not him.

Shinji just grunted as he disappeared through the suddenly intangible wall, sealing it in his wake.

He stood now in the quiet, dimly lit corridor from which the study rooms branched off. Sokaris was in room 4, at the end of the way, while he had been assigned to room 1.

Without further ado, he fished out the key he had gotten from Flitwick, and fitted it to the keyhole. With a heavy _thunk_, it opened, revealing the place he would soon turn into his sanctuary from the school's madness – his personal workshop (at least, for the year).

Entering it, he quickly took stock of the room, which didn't take long, given how small it was. It was rather Spartan, lacking the luxuries of the dorm itself, and from the look of it had been designed for students working on major projects who didn't want to be disturbed, not for long term habitation.

A small cot and desk stood in one corner of the room, with a small workbench and stool in the other, and enough floor space for him to stretch out if he needed to. There were no curtains, no soft carpets, no fire here – save for the small burner on the workbench, if he needed to brew something – just walls of cold, barren stone and what looked like oak paneling on the ground.

Shinji didn't mind. He didn't need anything too large or too comfortable.

He just needed somewhere where no others could intrude without his permission. Somewhere hidden from the sight and sound of others, where he could not feel the presence of other humans.

Somewhere he felt safe.

This small place, this place surrounded by stone, warded by charms to prevent damage to the chamber, hidden away by sophisticated spellwork, was perfect. It might not work for practicing or teaching the art of Onmyoudou to the Boy-Who-Lived, but he'd think of something in the next few days.

Probably.

For now, he was tired, and so he'd sealed the door, both by locking it and by using one of his ofuda, before walking over to the cot and collapsing into a long, dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>Waking up that morning, Shinji had felt safe enough to restock some of his ofuda. It was a slow, gradual process, which involved sitting down and picturing what he wanted in his mind, channeling raw power into a piece of paper, and then binding power to form with a character using ink and brush. He knew he was taking a risk, as no user of thaumaturgy had infinite prana, and spellwork was required in class, he might not have the focus and energy for it, but he thought it was worth it.<p>

Based on the first day, after all, none of the professors had asked their students to perform spellwork – with Professor Flitwick in fact, saying it was unlikely they would do so before Halloween – so Shinji thought he might as well study his Craft, something which one else at the school could do.

This time though, having heard about a possible Dark practitioner hiding somewhere in the school, he didn't just make Ofuda of sealing and binding.

He made offensive ofuda.

Not ofuda of binding or weakening, but ofuda of destruction.

These were perhaps the easiest of all to visualize – paper erupting into fire and light and sound, like miniature bombs. The most draining though, as the prana mix was not entirely stable – the prana wanted to flare to life _now_, to consume paper and air and become a ball of flame and power.

The others – sealing and separation – had been easier, since by nature, they closed, separated – and were meant to last, to be refilled.

And indeed, they were easier to fill a second time, though their capacity was slightly less than before, meaning there was a limit on how many times a single paper could be reused.

These single-use ofuda wouldn't have that issue.

In the process of making them though, he sometimes thought his wand was whispering to him, telling him he could do more than this – that he could make something which would burn the soul, tear apart the essence of a being, not just the body. He could feel the stream of prana from his core resonating with the core in his wand, as well as _it_ - the darkness he had conjured at _The Root of the Sky._

It lay there, coiled like a sleeping serpent, waiting to be used, to be awakened, to be turned against a foe in vengeance.

But he resisted.

He trembled, sweating, panting from the effort, his breath loud in the silence of the room – but he kept the ofuda focused on the physical, forcing the raging storm of prana down into the paper.

Binding the force of destruction itself with paper, ink, and will.

…at last, the first was finished, the storm receding.

Like any boy though, Shinji couldn't quite help _testing _the explosive ofuda – though he took the precaution of using an ofuda of warding – one of those that could seal sound and pressure – separating the inner and outer worlds, on himself.

When he could no longer hear what was going on, could only feel what he touched directly, he took up the first of the destructive ofuda, closed his eyes, and hurled it forth.

It moved through the air silently and _erupted_ into an incandescent blaze that for one brief, shining moment, turned night into day.

Even with his eyes squeezed tightly closed, Shinji could see it – a pure, white light that seemed to burn away everything.

For a moment, at least, before it faded.

Shinji dispelled the Ofuda of Warding and smiled as he looked down on a large pile of talismans he had yet to fill with power, thinking about the darkness he could conjure to blind, the explosions of light he could bind into paper to disorient and confuse, and more potent bombs to destroy.

And with that in mind, Matou Shinji smiled.

_Yes…this…this is a start._

* * *

><p>Based on the previous day's misadventures, Matou Shinji had thought himself ready for anything. Anything, however, had not included the <em>impossible, <em>which Professor McGonagall transforming from a tabby cat into a human _most certainly was._

Simple demonstrations – fine.

Theory, yes.

Alteration of a stick into bow, or paper into a sword (as a weapon), yes.

The factors that a practitioner of witchcraft must take into account when transfiguring an item, with the intended transformation (t) directly proportional to bodyweight (a), viciousness (v), wand power (w), concentration (c) and a fifth unknown variable (Z), certainly.

The demonstration of what McGonagall had called one of the ultimate achievements in Transfiguration – becoming an animagus – had rocked Shinji to his core, because that kind of transformation – done so fluidly, so easily made no sense.

A being had a fundamental shape for which its soul was the blueprint.

Altering that on any significant level should be extremely difficult – it was why such things as self-reinforcement, or worse, reinforcing other people were considered difficult magecraft, while reinforcing something inorganic was simple.

As long as something was human, this was simply not possible.

This "Animagus" transformation; the rumored Metamorphmagus abilities that some of these practitioners were said to have – these were not things any magus could achieve. Nothing that anyone who was still a human could achieve.

Shinji froze then, his face going blank as his thoughts screeched to a halt.

…the only beings he knew of with the ability to change physical appearance at will, either between two forms or whatever form they chose – were not fully human at all.

Dead Apostles. Matou Zouken. Animal Spirits. Elementals.

Dragons.

Beings of the Transcendent Kind, who needed…

'…_no Magic Circuits to actualize a mystery.'_

None of these practitioners had circuits – if they did, they wouldn't be able to cast as easily, to live as normal people.

The Surein Toroi character in Mahoutokoro had said as much, saying what he possessed – what he assumed the rest of these people possessed – was something like a magic core.

Those did not occur naturally in humans.

Those were the byproduct of humans inbreeding with those of the transcendent kind – demons, faeries, even dragons.

Was _that_ why the Church had hunted these practitioners of Witchcraft? Because the ancestors of these people hadn't been pure humans, but hybrids with nature spirits or demons?

He could see it.

Morgan Le Fay, the half-sister of King Arthur, had also been a Lady of the Lake once. Abe no Seimei, Japan's most famous onmyouji and credited for the development of Onmyoudou – had been half-_kitsune. _And Merlin – Merlin who these practitioners seemed to worship – had been half-incubus.

That must be it – the animal transformations – were _reversions_, with these part-humans tapping into the abilities of their long dormant blood to transform as animal spirits could.

And then there were the wands.

Wands that were not _just_ mystic codes, not _just _commonly made amplification items but had to be matched to the user.

If each wand was capable of different things and only compatible with certain users due to the materials used – did this not mean that it was using something of nature to resonate with the long dormant blood sleeping inside of them, and to control it?

Was that why they could do "accidental magic" before formally trained? Because by nature their power was unconfined and responded to intent?

…it fit. Oh, it fit too well even.

It was startling, and did they not have his background, he didn't think anyone would have thought of it – but he knew it had to be true. This society which isolated itself, which discriminated against non-humans, was itself based on long-ago interbreeding between humans and the transcendent kind.

'_Merlin…was he the one who established this society? With the help of Nimue?'_

That he didn't know. There was much he didn't know.

Much he had to learn.

And learn he resolved to do, even as Professor McGonagall turned her desk into a pig and back again, explained the basic mechanics of transfiguration, and handed out matches for them to transfigure into needles. Shinji, having used up much of his prana beginning of the day, was unable to effect any change to his match.

To his surprise, however, neither had Sokaris.

Indeed, by the end of the lesson, only Hermione Granger had managed to make her match go silver and pointy.

* * *

><p>And so things went for some time, day after day, routine setting in. Flying classes had been uneventful, with no incidents caused in the RavenclawHufflepuff session – though he'd heard later that Malfoy had attempted to make a scene, only to be stopped by Potter in the Gryffindor/Slytherin lessons.

Speaking of such, Shinji eventually found some time to dash off a missive to the Boy-Who-Lived about arranging a time to meet, along with some basic information about how to make ofuda and two of his sealing ofuda - one to assure his privacy in Slytherin when he was making these, and the other as a template he could use. Still, it was not until two weeks later when time opened up in both their schedules for a meeting.

That, unfortunately, was the very same day the Great Hogwarts Prank War went hot.


	11. Up in Flames

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11.<strong> _Up in Flames_

It had all begun innocuously enough. Murmurings of discontent picked up by those who had the power to act, petty mischiefs worked on one person or another in the privacy of their dormitories, people who normally excelled making mistakes one after another.

Nothing concrete, nothing that could provoke a large-scale response – nothing that the victims would talk about, given that the small things had been embarrassing, nothing that could conclusively be tied to someone else's machinations…

But it was enough.

Enough to send a frisson of anxiety through the general population. Enough for everyone to be on edge, to think that something was wrong, to wonder who would be next.

Shinji himself had been hit a few times by odd happenings. On one occasion, his hair had been turned into _wakame_ seaweed during lunch – though it had changed back by dinner when he hadn't said anything.

Yes, he'd been annoyed. He knew it was probably someone from Slytherin who wanted to curry favor with the Malfoy family, or possibly one of the Weasleys, given the perception that he was a Slytherin supporter. While Hillard was a prankster himself, he didn't think the prefect would prank someone of his own house.

_(Though privately, he wondered how many people thought him to be a practitioner of Dark Arts and seeker of forbidden knowledge – and why, if they thought so, they would be willing to prank him. Wasn't Hogwarts' motto to _"Never tickle a Sleeping Dragon"?_)_

The prank was petty – though Shinji admitted that he was a bit vain – but hadn't inconvenienced him much, aside from some curious looks. His clothing hadn't been damaged, his books were fine, his ofuda were intact – and his wand was untouched.

And in a way, it meant someone at Hogwarts had bothered to do some basic research. After all, there was a Shinto festival called mekari shinji (of which the similarity to Makiri Shinji had not escaped him), where _wakame_ seaweed was cut from the ocean at low tide and offered to an altar on New Year's Day for good fortune.

Frankly, given the cuisine, the manners of some of these folk, and such, Shinji was finding that he missed Japan, and whoever had pranked him almost reminded him of home.

Not the Matou home of course, given that he didn't care much for either his grandfather or his…_sister_, but just Japan in general. The culture. The food. The convenience and richness of tradition. The freedom to explore – which he knew was limited here.

So that particular incident hadn't bothered him too much.

Getting constipation several days in a row, however – which he would have attributed to the alien diet at Hogwarts, except for the fact that everyone else was reporting it too, was much more irritating.

And as the incidents intensified, he could feel it. The worry, the subtle stiffness everyone seemed to be displaying, the anxiety like a fish suffocating in a tank.

Some of the rumors had even spoken of issues happening within the Common Rooms themselves – people itching when sitting down on something, or vomiting up slugs – leading Shinji to think that he'd been right, internal security at Hogwarts was itself something of a joke and some prankster had gotten into all the houses – either that or people were pranking each other in each house. Either way, Shinji was very glad his corridor and study room were places others could not intrude, where he could throw himself into work and not think about the madness brewing.

With the benefit of something resembling a proper workshop, his ofuda-crafting had improved slowly but steadily, with him managing a bit more variety in the mix of light to heat to concussive force in his destructive ofuda.

Unfortunately, he'd made no progress towards making shikigami as of yet, but he hadn't expected that anyway. What he _had_ done though, were rework some of the sealing ofuda into binding ofuda – though he had no way of testing those yet.

Potter would help him with that, he was sure, would jump at the chance to learn this "subtle science and exact art", to copy of one of Professor Snape's favorite lines. Perhaps not so strangely, Shinji actually liked the head of Slytherin House, since there was nothing soft about the man.

Snape was cold, practical, business-like – someone who did not suffer idiocy, insult or intrusion into his private spaces. Someone who didn't mind letting others take risks, because they would not learn without it. To be honest, he reminded Shinji of what a magus should be – and it wouldn't surprise him if Snape had an area of the dungeons he had made into a workshop – or a laboratory at any rate.

Shinji thought he would have made a better father than the drunken lout he'd been stuck with. He hated Byakuya, the broken, weak man who had hidden the truth from him, the disfigured, one handed man who had given him false, twisted hope.

If it weren't for him. If he's known to begin with.

_No._

Such things were behind him. He wasn't his father. He wasn't his grandfather. He was Matou Shinji, a practitioner of Witchcraft and an Onmyouji, not a failure of a magus.

Or so he told himself, since such thoughts made it difficult for him to shape prana, to keep the violently agitated prana of destructive ofuda under control. He hadn't taken any out of his room yet, as he didn't see a reason to use them, just some of his (untested) binding ofuda and the usual sealing and warding varieties.

He'd found the sound ward to be quite useful in History of Magic, where he could block out the ghostly professor's bone dry recitation of the events of the Goblin Rebellions and Giant Wars. It was funny, under _anyone _else the topic of Dark "wizards", goblins, and wars would have been thrilling to any eleven year old boy, but the specter that went by the name of Binns had a way of draining the life out of everything.

The way Binns mixed up the names of students, calling them what Shinji could only assume were the names of students he'd had when he was yet alive, made it worse, as it only served to emphasize how disconnected the ghost was to reality.

Was it was because he was a Wraith, and was feeding off of students' happy emotions, consuming their enthusiasm unsuspectingly?

He didn't know, but while the nature of ghosts at Hogwarts was an interesting puzzle, it wasn't immediately relevant to his objectives, so he didn't think about it.

The boy from the East had showed incredible caution in the first few days after he deduced the mixed heritage that he was sure lay at the root of these practitioners' abilities, but after a while, had relaxed. Ultimately, whatever their background, it didn't change anything. He was here to learn, and if he was here, with the ability to use their gifts, it meant he shared some of this ancestry.

…he supposed that such a thing might have excluded him from possessing Magic Circuits, but he wasn't sure. It must have been possible in the past – though he wasn't sure about that. The time when such mingling might have occurred was long, long ago, back when many magi simply used Divine Words, before memory and recollection had become myth and legend, the truth lost to the ravages of time.

In retrospect, he'd expected that with the attention he'd received, he'd be pranked sooner or later – as he had been, but had assumed that so long as he stayed above the fray, not commenting, not reacting, the storm would pass, right?

* * *

><p>…but Matou Shinji had been wrong.<p>

He saw this now as he stood in the middle of the Great Hall, his robe and other clothing a charred, tattered ruin of its former self – the mere fact it had survived being a testament to the quality of the materials used—and his hair an unbroken mess of rippling azure-silver flames.

The earlier pranks had been nothing compared to this.

He'd ignored these, thinking they were beneath him, and besides, the effects of the spells had faded soon enough.

But this…_someone would pay for this._

This time, he hadn't just been embarrassed due to a cosmetic change – hadn't just suffered a blow to his dignity, as significant as that was. No, this time, they'd made it _personal_.

The robes he had spent so much time being fitted for – robes enchanted against the weather, made to be self-repairing and self-cleaning – were a smoking wreck. He was only thankful that he'd left his wand and books in his room, given that Charms and Herbology didn't hadn't begun teaching spells yet, but his _ofuda_ – most had been consumed or charred, rendered useless by the sudden blaze of blue fire that had washed over him.

Only one had survived in usable form, its position in the center of the packet making it so that it had only been lightly singed.

He wasn't exactly sure how this had happened – all Shinji knew was that he'd just sat down for breakfast when he'd felt a surge of prana – and something like a warm summer breeze - wash over him, with Sokaris' eyes reflecting something _blue._

He'd looked down to see that he _was on fire, _that _eerie_ blue flames were licking at his robes, his hair, everything – and bolted upright.

The fire went out scant seconds after he did, just in time for a jet of water from a quick-thinking, but not quite quick enough _Aguamenti_ cast by Hermione Granger to soak him to the bone.

…and then a voice started to sing:

"_Liar Liar, Your Pants are on Fire!_

_You're just a worm without your fancy attire_

_Dark wizard wannabe don't you get mad!_

_Pining for Potty, oh you've got it so bad, ohoho!"_

And then it began to repeat, with Shinji trembling in utter incandescent rage, looking for some kind of outlet. That was it – the last, bloody straw. He'd been the soul of restraint up until now, ignoring the transfiguration of his hair, the constipation and such. Even more so than Sokaris, who'd been visibly annoyed after her hair had been recolored green and silver, with an additional enchantment adding a bit of sibilance whenever she spoke, so that she sounded like a snake.

Shinji gripped his one remaining ofuda tightly in clenched fists, hoping that if he gave the magical fire no space, it wouldn't burn these last, precious bits of stored power he had worked so hard to prepare, and sat down.

Some of his Housemates edged away from him as the blue fire blazed into existence again, quickly spreading from his hair to the rest of his body, but Shinji didn't say anything, just focusing on keeping one of his fists clenched so tightly it almost drew blood. The flames slowly ate at his already charred robes, and began to blacken the table where he sat, but at least the song fell mercifully silent.

The laughter from the Slytherin table – from Malfoy and his gang – didn't exactly help, with the pale-faced blond boy making snide remarks about how Shinji, far from being powerful wizard from the East, was obviously barely more than a squib – and one who couldn't control his powers.

Why, Malfoy said, the foreigner was obviously worse than Weasley or Longbottom, as one could obviously see from the display of accidental magic just now. And he'd heard that even the mudblood Granger had outperformed the Eastern boy in Transfiguration.

'_Accidental Magic, Malfoy?'_ Shinji thought venomously. _'I'll show you accidental.'_

It was then that Harry and his group of Slytherins broke the cardinal rule of the snakes, by disagreeing with other Slytherins in public.

"Oh come off it, Malfoy," Parkinson spat at the boy she'd once seen as a ticket to the top. "If he's a Squib, why did you run off with your tail between your legs last time you talked to him?"

"Because, Parkinson," Malfoy drawled, enjoying the moment too much for his own good. "Anyone thinking he's better than a Malfoy is obviously crazy, and who knows what a crazy person would do. Especially one who obviously likes blokes as much as _that _one. Foreigners and their strange traditions."

The blond had gotten another round of laughter for his crude joke – and Shinji had a target he needed to silence.

Shinji got up then, his clothing now mostly burned to rags, noting that the song did not start up again.

'…_maybe it only starts if someone tries to put the fire out?'_

With the air of a dangerous predator, he stalked over to the Slytherin table, to where Malfoy sat and laughed, flanked by the heavyset Goyle and Crabbe. Utter menace was in his eyes, though with his hands in the open, and no wand visible, no one stopped him.

…well, Goyle and Crabbe stood up as he approached and tried to bar his way forward, but Malfoy waved them off.

"Let's see what the foreign Squib has to say for himself," the blond drawled, smiling viciously at what had happened. "Look at him, unable to control his magic, coming to his betters for help. Why—"

"_Kono yarou,_"Shinji snarled quietly – but it was pitched in such a tone the entire Slytherin table could hear.

"What did you say, Squib?" Malfoy jeered, standing up to look the other boy in the eye, though he purposefully glanced at the boy's flaming hair with disdain. Oh, he was _enjoying_ this, seeing that eastern bastard taken down a peg. "That didn't sound like much of an apology."

That _smug_ tone. That tone of insolence.

Oh, if only Shinji had had his wand, a curse might have flown – perhaps even something of the sleeping darkness – but as it was, he had nothing.

"Stop it Malfoy," the boy from the east replied quietly, a dangerous undertone in his voice. "Or you won't like what happens next."

"What? Are you threatening me?" Malfoy asked incredulously, taking out his wand and pointing it at Shinji. It was early and the teachers were not yet there, except for Quirrell, who didn't seem to care about the mess developing below. "You who can't even control your magic?"

"Of course not," Shinji said, that terrifying smile on his face once again. "I'm just going to give you a hug."

"…what."

But it was too late for "what", as Shinji closed the distance between them and caught Draco in a big hug…right before sitting down and erupting once more into flames – flames that quickly spread to Draco's robes and wand – but not his hair.

"No! No! What are you doing?! My wand! Crabbe, Goyle, stop him!" Draco said as he flailed about, trying to escape – but it was no good. The blond knew fear then, knew panic, knew what it was like to vent his bowels as he imagined the flames burning him to ash.

Shinji's strength, maddened by anger, was like iron, and his expression was murderous.

The two large boys grabbed his arms, trying to make him let go of their 'boss', but that only made their robes catch on fire as well, blue flames licking hungrily at the material as they jumped backwards, trying to pat it out – but to no avail.

Shinji knew there would probably be consequences to this, but for the moment, he didn't care, as he just stared at Malfoy's suddenly fearful face as the flames consumed all in their path. Oh, the flames didn't hurt _him_ as he was apparently the one they were centered on, but…who said the same was true for someone touching him?

"_Apologize,"_ Shinji ordered, with Draco just opening his mouth to either comply or violently deny him – only to say nothing at all – as streams of red and gold sparks shot out of Draco's every orifice, pairing nicely with the blue fire that was now spreading across him without pause.

Shinji, surprised by this, let go and stood up, the flames going out around him – but not around Draco, as they were not part of the original prank. With a look at anyone else who would challenge him, he strode out of the Great Hall, his hair burning blue. Crabbe and Goyle, who were busy trying to stomp out the flames on their own robes, notably gave him a large berth. They did not want to be touched, did not want him to do whatever he'd done to Draco.

They were afraid, for clearly the foreign wizard was not without his tricks _even without a wand._

Malfoy himself tried to sputter, to curse, to say something, but only sparkles and streamers shot from his mouth with a hissing sound, as if he was a living launcher of fireworks, with blue fire eating at his robes, his garments – his wand.

The flames couldn't hurt him, but they _could_ destroy his most precious things, with him powerless to stop them.

Crabbe and Goyle, with more intelligence than anyone would have credited, tried to use the water conjuring charm to put out the flames -

…only to find that the flames were _waterproof._

* * *

><p>Leaving the Hall, Shinji stalked towards the infirmary, thinking that perhaps the Healer there might know a cure for whatever…<em>prank<em> had been performed on him.

He couldn't sit down – couldn't even lean too far to one side – without fire materializing a hair from his skin, and his robes were tattered enough, with obvious holes now. For that matter, his casual wear too had been burned nearly beyond recognition, though his body had been untouched – except for his hair.

Later on, when this was behind him, he would appreciate the spellwork that had gone into this…prank, but for now he was furious. Furious at the destruction of his robes, of his clothes, of the ofuda he'd been carrying around.

It was just as well he hadn't been carrying around his newly made destructive Ofuda, or he might actually have been injured when they destabilized and went off next to him.

This was targeted – probably by someone enchanting the spot he liked to sit in for breakfast, or something he liked to eat. Someone had watched him, planned out this prank – and executed it well. They couldn't have known of his ofuda, of the work he put into preparing the talismans, but…even so…

…someone would pay for this.

Matou Shinji swore it would be so. Dropping Malfoy down a few pegs, looking at the blond's fearful face had only slightly assuaged the yearning for revenge.

Besides, anyone could see that Malfoy had pulled out his wand, while Shinji had just given the boy a hug. If anyone was in the right – surely it was he – the _defenseless _victim of a cruel prank.

Well, that was his story and he was sticking to it. After all, with Malfoy in a hug, the boy could hardly hit him with a spell, now could he?

Now though, Shinji just wanted this spell _off_ of him, and the sooner the better, since he couldn't study, couldn't go to class, couldn't do anything really, if it wasn't gone.

"Well, well, well," a raspy, thoroughly unpleasant voice spoke then, "Doing magic in the hallways, are we?"

Shinji ignored the voice, as he just stalked down the hallway. He hadn't been doing magic, so he had nothing to be afraid of.

…or so he thought, until he was stopped by a painfully tight grip.

He turned to see Argus Filch, the hunchback holding him, his pouchy, pasty face and budging pale eyes too close for comfort, his brown coat seeming like it had seen much better days.

"Think you're too good to stop for ol' Filch, do you?" the caretaker of the Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft wheezed, his expression…unpleasant. "Think you can just break the rules without being punished?"

"Let. Me. Go." Shinji answered, in no mood to be manhandled. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"Don't lie to me boy," the cruel old man replied, squeezing Shinji's arm painfully for emphasis. "I can see your hair all fancily enchanted. Tried to duel and get away with it, did you? Well, you don't get past Argus Filch!"

Filch all but dragged Shinji over to his dingy, windowless office, all the while muttering what a pity it was that the Headmaster wouldn't let him inflict what he thought were just punishments on students.

It was a pity, Filch said, that they'd let the old punishments die out.

He spoke of things like hanging Shinji by the wrists for days from well-oiled chains. Or even better from their ankles and such. Thousands of students had been punished, disciplined because they thought they were too good to follow the rules.

Once at his office, decorated with various implements of torture and pain, Filch had all but shoved Shinji down into a chair, not expecting Shinji's form to blaze with azure fire at that moment, or for him to fall over onto one of his wooden cabinets from the force of the push.

The wooden cabinets containing his records, the things he'd confiscated, the many write-up he'd filed to get students detention.

The flame being magical, blue fire began to spread once more, the smell of smoke rising into the air as wood and dry paper began to burn.

Filch stood paralyzed, his expression aghast for a second as he took in what was happening and reacted in anger.

"YOU!" the caretaker snarled, picking up a length of chain from his desk and moving to attack the wayward student. "YOU DARE DO THIS? I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!"

Shinji flinched then backwards as the man moved, his clenched fist opening on instinct – releasing the Ofuda of Binding he held in his hands – a seemingly innocuous piece of paper which flew forth and paralyzed Filch in mid-lunge, his residual momentum sending him crashing into the ground near the burning cabinet.

Shinji scrabbled to his feet, breathing hard.

This man…this man had tried to kill him. And for what? For something what wasn't his fault?

Well, Shinji wasn't about to let him out of his binds, since the man Filch would just come after him anyway. Filch had made his choice, so Shinji made his, walking away, leaving the caretaker in an office rapidly filling with smoke as flames spread all around, casting an eerie glow.

For his part, the caretaker couldn't move, couldn't cry out, couldn't even tremble as hungry flames grew and grew, a glare of mixed hatred and fear frozen on his face as the fire crept closer, closer, ever closer, his records, his possessions, everything going up in smoke...

'_No. It can't end like this. No…please…no…please somebody…anybody help me…help me.'_

But no one came.

He had no kind bone in his body, had never helped anyone in his life, in fact he'd made a living making people's lives miserable, so why would anyone spare a moment for him?

Without outside intervention, fire followed its natural course, burning until there was nothing left to burn.

Until at last, there was silence.

* * *

><p>Shinji had been unable to go to class that day, as Madam Pomfrey had fussed over him, alarmed at his rather…singed appearance. She'd insisted on giving him a thorough examination with spells, and had been relieved to see that the fire which seemed to erupt whenever he was less than vertical had not actually hurt him, only burning what was on him.<p>

When a simple _Finite incantatem _didn't work, or a number of other dispelling charms, the nurse frowned, removing his robe and dropping it to the floor, where it immolated itself, leaving behind only ashes.

Unfortunately, his hair continued to burn, so that hadn't been all of it.

"Let's try a purging potion then – it should neutralize any foreign magics from your system."

And it did, once he downed the vial of thoroughly unpleasant…fluid, noting that whether magical or mundane, medicines tasted horrible. His hair went back to its normal texture of black – almost blue in the light, and was thankfully no longer on fire.

"Nasty prank – can't say for sure what happened, since…well, the evidence is gone, but I'd wager someone put an enchantment on your robe."

"How...?"

"Do you normally sit in the same place every meal?" the nurse asked, to which Shinji's sour expression said everything. "There you have it then. An invisible rune or two would have done the trick."

She seemed very competent, but then she was matronly old lady, with greying hair, and had been in the position of healer for a long, long time.

"I'll have to run some extra diagnostic spells on you to make sure nothing stuck, so you'll have to stay for the day, I'm afraid," the Nurse said, not unkindly. "I'll have your prefect bring you something to wear."

"What should I…?"

"I suggest you get some rest, Mr. Matou," the matron said firmly.

With nothing better to do, Shinji lay down on clean, white linen sheets, enjoying the fact that for the first time today, he was not on fire. Not so surprisingly, he soon fell asleep.

* * *

><p>"Good afternoon, Mr. Matou," a voice said, rousing the boy from his sleep. The unsmiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him.<p>

"Headmaster," he replied gravely, sitting up in his tattered garments. "What seems to be the matter?"

Dumbledore's frown deepened as he regarded the bed-bound Ravenclaw whose guarded expression reminded him of Tom Riddle's. Especially given the circumstances which had brought him here. Oh, not the fire itself, but how he had simply left the man behind. Even if the student had known it wouldn't hurt Filch itself, the causal destruction of the man's property and the way he had forced the man to watch spoke of cruelty - cruelty he had seen before.

"Argus Filch tried to have you expelled, Mr. Matou," the old man said after a moment, dispensing with the pleasantries. "Do you know why that was?"

He knew that his words would be provoking a response, but wanted to see what the boy would come up with for justification.

"Because I wouldn't let him kill me," Shinji answered, not bothering to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"My boy, Argus Filch would not do any such thing—"

"—yes, of course you'd side with him, wouldn't you? It figures."

Yes...that bitterness, that desire for someone to believe him. Why...curious, the headmaster paused, looking into Shinji's eyes for a second before _blinking_, seemingly startled.

While, it seemed that the boy had no mental defenses, looking at someone's memories didn't work quite so well when there was a language barrier. Nevertheless, his objective tonight wasn't to seek truth, but to see how Shinji would respond.

"—and if you truly believed so, why didn't you go to a teacher afterwards?"

"And what would they have done? Professor Binns still teaches History when every student can say he's utterly useless. And since Filch mentioned asking you about chaining students up, it meant you already knew what he was like - and did nothing."

So Shinji said, but honestly, the thought of telling someone had never crossed his mind. Magi dealt with conflict on their own, without involving others if at all possible.

"This is no matter to just be brushed aside, Mr. Matou. He told me that you set fire to his office and then used some kind of magic to trap him inside," the old man responded. "That you tried to kill him."

"I wasn't aware that it was wrong to protect yourself from being killed, Headmaster," Shinji replied icily, his expression cold. "Which is what. All I did. If you ask Madam Pomfrey, she will tell you I was pranked and that the fire wouldn't have actually hurt anyone. And more, I didn't have a wand, so what intentional magic could I have cast? Just ask any of the people who were in the Great Hall."

"Mr. Matou, the fact that I asked is the very reason you have not yet been expelled," the old man said gruffly, looking intently at the young boy. "Your defensiveness is…troubling, however."

But more than his defensiveness was his coldness, his utter lack of empathy. _That_ bothered Dumbledore more than the older man would admit.

"I stop someone from murdering me, and _I'm_ the one who is troubling, headmaster?" Shinji asked archly. "By the way you talk, you'd think you fought with Voldemort, not against him."

Dumbledore flinched as if slapped.

"My boy," he began again. "I am just concerned that your actions are taking you down the wrong path. Poor Argus has lost all his worldly possessions, after all, and all over a small misunderstanding."

But Shinji had not a shred of human feeling towards whatever loss Filch might have suffered. To him, those were simply inevitable consequences, and who shed a tear for those.

"I don't think it was a misunderstanding at all. He attacked me, headmaster - made me fear for my life," he replied, his eyes hard. "And so if I acted, _if _I stopped him, and he lost everything but his life, why should I care? He tried to kill me. I couldn't care less if he died."

"That is _exactly_ why I am concerned, Mr. Matou."

The two looked at each other for a long moment, both rather disturbed by the other. The headmaster that this boy from the east was so callous towards the life of another, the boy that the headmaster didn't understand that trying to kill someone meant one gave up one's rights to safety in return – that the only ones who should kill were those prepared to _be_ killed.

Now, Dumbledore didn't have any conclusive evidence that the boy had been lying – especially as the ofuda of binding had burned up in the fire that had consumed the room and his thoughts were both clouded and in Japanese. But he remembered another boy had been very good about not leaving evidence behind while he did his cruel deeds, played his games for power.

And even if not, Matou's manner – his cold, icy manner – suggested he knew more than he was saying, which made his association with the Boy-Who-Lived all the more concerning.

Still, the two said nothing more to one another that night, with Dumbledore leaving as suddenly as he'd come.

* * *

><p>Robert Hillard came in some time after that, bringing a bale of clothing for the victim of the most vicious prank yet.<p>

"You certainly can cause trouble, Matou," he began without preamble. "Half of Slytherin thinks you're a dark wizard – You-Know-Who come back to life, even – the troublemakers of the school want to give you a medal for what you did to Filch, and Penelope wants to hex the living daylights out of you for costing Ravenclaw points to what you did to Malfoy. I even had to testify in front of Dumbledore that you weren't the one who caused what had happened."

Then he laughed.

"…that prank has the Weasleys' fingerprints all over it, I'd say," he sighed, shaking his head. "In fact, that bit with Malfoy, fireworks and explosions were always things they'd liked. I'm surprised there were no Dungbombs involved."

"…Weasleys?" Shinji echoed. He remembered Potter describing a red-headed idiot in Gryffindor, and also Hillard mentioning they were inveterate troublemakers.

"The biggest pranksters in the school, or so they like to think," the prefect sniffed. "It looks like they mean to have a bit of a prank war."

"...I see," Shinji grumbled. He wasn't in the mood to be pranked again, and really, just wanted to get back at the ones who had so tarnished his dignity, destroyed his very ofuda. Then inspiration struck. "You know..." he said slowly, remembering a conversation in the Ravenclaw Common Room "...the other prefect said you were a prankster yourself."

"Yes, what of it?"

"Want to help me get even?"

Hillard glanced at the singed clothing his Housemate wore and smirked a bit, holding out his hand.

"Oh, you want to give them exactly what they want, eh?" he said, as the two shook on it. "Well well, a War to the knife it will be. With your wandless skills and my knowledge of the castle, I think we can get the best of em, eh? String em up on their own pranks, I say. At least this time, we'll show why Ravenclaw isn't a house to be trifled with."

Shinji smiled – a predator's smile – as he shook his prefect's hand.

Now_ this_, he was looking forward to.


	12. Pranksters and Trolls

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12.<strong> Pranksters and Trolls

"I believe in subtlety – but then, subtlety is a lost art among pranksters."

Thus spoke Robert Hillard, a prefect of Ravenclaw, as he made his nightly patrols to make sure other students weren't out after curfew. As a student leader, prefects had certain responsibilities to the school – supervising the decoration of the castle, enforcing the rules (more or less), and of course, keeping younger students – especially those of their house – safe. It was this last that drove him to do what he did, more so than any of the others – a sense of responsibility, particularly when someone in his House had been so badly pranked.

…granted, there was a not-insignificant part of him that enjoyed being a prankster, but that was secondary to his House loyalty.

Really.

"You mean like changing someone's hair to seaweed instead of setting them on fire?" came a dry voice from what seemed like a patch of wall behind him.

A moving patch of wall trailing him no less, at that, a slight irregularity against the backdrop of the castle interior.

"Something along those lines," he conceded. "And Matou, do try to keep quiet – you never know who else might be listening."

He was taking a risk with this particular patrol as it was, since nowhere was it written that prefects should be taking others along with them on patrols. Then again, there'd been other prefects – mostly in Slytherin - who had abused their positions by being unnecessarily rough on first year students and docking points from students they didn't like or were not of their house, so Robert didn't exactly feel that he was doing anything unforgivable.

If someone like Filch could stay employed in spite of his cruelty, and other prefects kept their positions despite using them for personal gain – well, then he felt justified in looking out for his own.

In the pranking history of Hogwarts, Gryffindor and Slytherin were normally the houses at odds, though the occasional brilliant Hufflepuff would leave their mark on the school. Ravenclaw, however, was generally regarded as neutral, and aside from personal vendettas, like his low-grade war against the Weasley Twins, was not normally pulled into the affairs of the other houses, due to their very reputation as being the House that sought knowledge.

After all, knowledge that someone else did not have could very well take the form of very nasty spells, and one did not need to be a Ravenclaw to know that having an exceptionally bright – and vindictive – opponent out for one's blood was a _very bad idea._

Which is why he'd approached Matou Shinji in the Hospital Wing, after the first-year had been pranked – because personally, Robert felt that pranking a first year – even one who had abilities like this one - was unacceptable, as it set a bad precedent for future prank wars and altercations. And as a prankster himself, he knew that if the House did not strike back, Ravenclaw would be considered fair game for coming pranks

And that was not a thought he found palatable.

"_Homenum Revelio,_" he said, pointing his wand before him, with no apparent result or reaction.

Good. If there had been, that would mean other people were in the area, perhaps Disillusioned – as Shinji was – concealed by an invisibility cloak, or simply hidden from sight behind an object. As it was, he could continue.

"And that's one easy way invisibility can be defeated," the prefect noted, glancing about. "As the Latin says, it reveals hidden human presences, though like any other spell, you have to think of using it."

"…do you have something against invisibility?" Shinji asked, looking down at his body – which was _not_ invisible, but had taken on the exact color and texture of what was around him, making him something of a human chameleon. "I mean, the spell you cast on me on me…"

A rather strange spell, too, one that made Shinji feel as if a raw egg had been cracked over his head as it traveled down, his form changing color and texture to match his surroundings.

"Well, yes, it's the next best thing to having an invisibility cloak," Robert agreed, but shook his head. "But it's not perfect. And to me, that makes it better."

"Why?"

Shinji didn't quite understand, since wouldn't it be easier to be unseen at all, rather than just blend in?

"There are several things true invisibility I find problematic," the prefect explained, keeping a wary eye out. "First, they make you sloppy. Once you think you're invisible, you tend to be more reckless, forgetting about things like the noises you make, if you have on any distinguishing scents, or the abilities of people around you."

"What else?" Shinji asked. Become invisible using magecraft was something that required quite a bit of prana, he had read, so he was curious about what these practitioners of witchcraft had come up with.

"Many people, when they're invisible, don't bother to check if there's anyone else around – especially anyone else who could be invisible," Robert continued as if speaking to the empty air, frowning as he remembered one _particular_ incident he had no desire to go into. "The power gets to your head, and then you mess up because you're too comfortable."

"Huh…" Matou Shinji digested that with a grimace. He hadn't missed the implied warning in the last sentence. Or at least he thought it was directed at him. "And disillusionment is better?"

"Yes. Because its imperfect – and you are aware of it, you have to stay on your toes. Invisibility only works so long as no one realizes you're there, after all," the prefect said, smiling ever so slightly. "Also, with Disillusionment, you don't need something like a cloak – which is all too easy to forget, snag, or otherwise leave behind. You just need your wand."

"…you sound like you speak from experience," Shinji replied, pressing himself against one of the castle walls just a little harder as the pair made their way along a corridor.

"You could say that," Hillard said, not revealing any more than he had to. "Anyway, when planning an operation, it is key to have accurate information. What a target's habits are, the places they have to pass, the number of people they are likely to be around, what their likely reaction will be, and so forth. A prank master doesn't just act – he _anticipates_."

Shinji's face, the very texture of grey stone, soured as he thought back to the events of the Great Hall.

"…you mean like using waterproof flames and a spell that…"

"Yes, exactly," the prefect acknowledged quietly. "There is a reason the Weasley Twins are known as the greatest prankster of Hogwarts."

He frowning as he performed the _Homenum Revelio_ spell again, with the spell returning a negative result. He knew the other prefects' patrol route, to be sure, but he wasn't sure if there would be teachers out of bed – or Filch, though Hillard thought that less likely after the man's traumatic experience – or if there were other troublemakers around.

It would be spectacularly bad to be discovered by Fred and George Weasley, to name the ones he was particularly concerned with, as they were both clever and powerful.

He knew, as he'd never caught them. No one had, after their first year.

It was as if they had some way to know people were coming from a good distance away, and respond ahead of time, though as far as Robert knew, no spell was capable of that. Even so, he'd taken a few precautions himself, such as casting a spell to fill the ears of those within earshot with a sort of white-noise.

Shinji, for his part, was cautious himself, but found himself reassured by the older practitioner's manner as they continued on the patrol circuit, taking care to avoid the Forbidden Corridor. He looked around, noting the various choke points Robert pointed out – the places one _had_ to pass through if headed to the Great Hall from one of the dormitories.

But…

"…that spell they pranked me with," he said after they'd been walking for a while. "The one which set me on fire when I sat down."

"What about it?" the prefect replied. He seemed to get the wrong idea though, as he continued with a caution. "No, you shouldn't go about using it on the Weasleys. For one thing, the spellwork is probably beyond you. For another, it's so…_uncreative_ to just reuse a prank like that."

"That wasn't what I meant."

"Oh?" Now Robert was interested. "What did you have in mind?"

"Being able to burst into flame whenever I wanted could be very useful," Shinji explained, looking down at his camouflaged form. "With the fire a bit further away from my body, of course."

Robert whistled.

"I don't think I've heard of anyone using that before, but that's probably because it wouldn't do any good in a duel," he noted, keeping a wary eye on the hallway. "Most spells would probably pass right through it. A Shield spell is generally more useful."

"…except for the Unforgivables."

"Well, yes, but you're not going to stop those with fire either," the prefect replied tersely. "I mean, there are very few…" But he trailed off then, his thoughts flickering back to the rumors about the spell Shinji had wrought on Granger – which had involved a slip of paper. "…nevermind, I see what you mean." He shook his head then. "Look, I don't want to know. The less you tell me, the less I'm culpable for if something happens."

Shinji eyed the prefect speculatively. He'd thought Hillard was just an authority figure before, maybe one with a vendetta of his own, but…this was interesting.

"If you're serious about doing that though, knowing the basic spell would be useful," Robert said after a while. "That means asking the Weasleys directly, which will only work if you impress them. And well, you have your work cut out for you, given that half the school thinks you're a Slytherin in Ravenclaw clothing."

Which was not a wonderful thing as far as Shinji was concerned. While he admitted – now – that he may have overreacted to Malfoy's taunts, given the state of mind he'd been in – though really, any magus who had had his property destroyed in that manner would have acted to pre-empt any insult – he had wanted to be acknowledged as someone with skill and power from the East.

…and not as a ruthless monster, as the Headmaster seemed to think of him. Inwardly he seethed. How _dare_ that old man try to claim Shinji had been wrong when he hadn't even tried to understand how he had felt?

For how could he? Albus Dumbledore, as Shinji had heard and read repeatedly, was one of the greatest practitioners of witchcraft of the western world, holding many positions of power and responsibility. He was used to obedience, used to having others do what he asked without challenge, so _of course_ he would say there was another way.

Because there would have been – for _Albus Dumbledore_, who would never have been in that situation to begin with because of his power_._ Not so for Matou Shinji, who had genuinely feared for his life and had been a victim.

So of course it was easy for Albus Dumbledore to say Shinji should care about the losses of his enemies. Of course it was easy for Dumbledore to say that he worried Shinji was going down the wrong path by not showing mercy – when for Shinji, this was a matter of survival. Mercy was useful when one had options – when one was more powerful than one's enemy.

Shinji had had _one _ofuda and no wand. Filch had had a length of chain, and had demonstrated clearly lethal intent.

There had been no time for mercy – and no place for it. And compassion – Shinji didn't understand why he should care what a foe had lost. So what if Filch had lost everything in the world? Filch had tried to kill him, and Shinji had responded with decidedly less than lethal force – so what exactly was the problem?

The way Dumbledore had pressed the issue, Shinji almost thought that the old man wasn't really talking to him, but to someone else in his head – kind of like Binns, really, who kept mistaking his students for those of a hundred years ago.

But back in the present,

"…you enjoy this, don't you? Even though you're a prefect."

Hillard looked a little sheepish at the observation – which was, after all, true.

"Well, there's a certain thrill to it, I admit," the older boy said, with a bit of chagrin. "I mean, look at what we're doing. We're learning – or you are, at least – by planning out a campaign, gathering intelligence, helping us in Ravenclaw to defend our sacred honor. As a prefect, I can't get directly involved myself, but that doesn't mean I can't point you in the right direction or show you a thing or two. After all, if I have no idea of what _exactly_ you plan to do."

Shinji eyed the prefect from his vantage point behind and to the side of the boy, more or less unseen unless someone was looking closely at him, and fought down the urge to laugh.

"What is your ambition, anyway?" he asked, curious as to what the older boy had to say.

"Me?" Robert echoed. "Well, I want to be an Auror. Failing that, a Hit Wizard. You?"

While Matou Shinji had no idea what either of those were, having not paid attention to things such as jobs in the "Wizarding World" – he was a first year, after all – and being from Japan where things were run differently, he supposed he could be honest without revealing everything.

"To reach the limits of what is possible through witchcraft and other arts," he replied.

Hillard whistled softly at this, raising an eyebrow.

"An Unspeakable then, or whatever the equivalent is in your homeland? You certainly don't aim low, do you?"

"And what would be the point of that?"

Hillard chuckled.

"Point. I've always thought we Ravenclaws were the more ambitious ones anyway, since what is a thirst for knowledge if not ambition in its purest form?"

During the long patrol, Hillard casually pointed out how several corridors converged, what the main intersections of the school were – with a caution that since the placement of the staircases changed on their own, one had to be careful just in case students began to divert to an alternate route.

This was interesting to Shinji, but more interesting were Hillard's comments about each of the Houses, where he believed each of the Houses' common rooms were and what was known about each one

Take the Slytherins, for instance.

It was known well enough that the entrance to their common room was located behind an unmarked stone wall in the dungeons of Hogwarts, which only slid open to reveal a passage with the right password. Now security through obscurity, coupled with a password system, should have been fairly powerful - it was just a shame that the password was usually something as simple as "Pure Blood" or "Always Pure", and that the current password could usually be obtained if one knew the right people and was willing to pay the price.

For the Gryffindors didn't bother with obscurity.

Their Common Room was located in the eponymous Gryffindor Tower, and all knew it to be on the seventh floor, where it was guarded by a well-known oil painting named "The Fat Lady", which portrayed…well, a rather fat lady in a pink silk dress. The painting only swung aside with the proper password – which regularly changed every month or so – though as most Gryffindors were not observant of their surroundings – Fred and George Weasley being rare exceptions – one could easily overhear the password if one was good at sneaking around.

…that or get it from Penelope if she was in a foul enough mood at something the Twins had done, given her close association to Percy Weasley, one of the Gryffindor prefects and decidedly _off-limits to prank_ unless Shinji was interested in Penelope making both his and Robert's lives a living hell.

As for the Hufflepuffs…

"You know, it's funny," Hillard remarked, as they passed by a corridor down on the ground floor. "Out of all the Houses, Hufflepuff's Common Room is the only one that's never been seen by an outsider."

"Oh?" Shinji hadn't expected that, though he was curious how the House managed to remain unseen so far.

"It's something of an open secret, but part of it is because Gryffindor and Slytherin are caught up in their feud – rather like the Founder who established them," the prefect commented, casting yet another _Homenum Revelio._ So far, the patrol had been rather uneventful, which meant that either there really was nothing going on, or that whoever was out there had more than a healthy degree of caution. "Part of it is because of Hufflepuff loyalty."

"Loyalty?"

"Oh yes," Hillard answered, a rather thin smile on his face as they walked past a pile of large barrels, all stacked in a shadowy stone recess near the kitchens. "No non-Hufflepuff has ever managed to get the exact location of the entrance to their common room, either from asking – or following a Puff. We know it's somewhere around this area, close to the Kitchens, but more than that..."

The prefect shrugged.

"They're not usually known as great pranksters. Most of the master pranksters like the Weasleys, or the Marauders before them, have Gryffindors, since they're the House whose members are most willing to bend – or break – ruled," he said, shaking his head. "But every once in a while, there's a Puff you have to watch out for, like Tonks."

He laughed, just a little, at the memory of the older girl whose antics had graced these halls.

"Shame she isn't here for this prank war – just missed it too, graduated the year before you came," Robert mused, just a bit wistfully. "Bit of a troublemaker she was, even if she kind of a klutz – in public."

"In public?"

"The thing is, Tonks was a Metamorphmagus, so she could look like whoever she wanted, year or gender be damned," the older explained, chuckling a bit. "She was always showing it off too, which definitely caught people's attention, since well, someone who could look like anything, anyone you ever dreamed of? Yeah, she didn't like that."

Shinji could well imagine that.

"What did she do about it?" was what he asked though.

"Well, no one can _prove_ anything, but bad things had a habit of happening to people she didn't really get along with," Hillard said after a moment. "She even took the Weasleys by surprise once, we think, after which they never tried to prank her again. Good girl, Tonks, training to be an Auror now."

"…someone sounds like he has a crush," Shinji teased, knowing he'd hit a mark when the older prefect paused in mid-step. It wasn't for very long, but it was enough to confirm what he'd thought. "…don't tell me you became a prankster to try to impress her."

The pause that came next was just a heartbeat too long.

"No. Of course not," Hillard said in clipped, business-like tones as he began walking again. "Now where was I?"

"Metamorphmagi?"

"Right. On that note, I have to say I'm rather impressed with Sokaris," the prefect continued, brushing past the somewhat awkward question from earlier. "Rumor says she's a Metamorphmagus, but she always looks like…well, herself."

"…because she looks like herself?" Shinji echoed.

"Yeah – from what I know from Tonks, it takes a lot of control not to let your body change with your emotions, but I've never seen Sokaris look like anything besides how she always does around us," Hillard noted. "Which just makes wonder what mischief she's up to, since she disappears about as often as you do."

Mischief? Now, this was news.

"You pay attention to these things?" _To me?_

"Of course. I'm a prefect, it's my job to pay attention," the prefect confided, waving his wand around a corner. "And frankly, inside Ravenclaw, she's talked about as much as you are in the rest of Hogwarts. Foreign students are pretty rare, after all, with most going to their home magical schools, though I imagine both of you have your circumstances."

The rest of the patrol was uneventful, but then that night was meant to be. To defeat an enemy, one had to learn how an enemy thought, an enemy planned, an enemy responded. One had to know what an enemy knew and get inside an enemy's head.

But one _also_ had to know one's strengths, gather allies, and learn just what one _could _do before coming up with a plan. To do otherwise was not only reckless, but almost certainly doomed to failure.

* * *

><p>And so marked the outbreak of battle – the beginning of a true Prank War, not the skirmishes that had been, the small-time games that could be explained away by misfortune.<p>

Ron Weasley had sat for breakfast and bitten into a sausage with his usual ardor for food down one morning, only for his hair to turn a deep, oily black – styled like Snape's no less - and his robes to change into a long cloak.

"Five points from Gryffindor for mocking a teacher," had been Snape's drawled out comment on the affair, something that had caused some of Slytherin House to laugh.

Biting into toast, Shinji had begun throwing up slugs and bat-winged bogeys.

Sokaris' hair had been recolored red and gold, with an enchantment making her roar like a lion when she spoke. She stopped coming to breakfast after that, but the Weasley Twins had found their food portions replaced with worms for three days. No matter where they sat, the plates that manifested in front of them Weasley Twins had been covered in worms.

Baked worms, fried worms, minced worms, and more.

When they asked the house elves why this was happening, they had been confused. After all, the Weasleys had asked for this, right?

They didn't mess with Sokaris again, for like any Weasley, their weakness was their stomachs, but most of the Ravenclaw table had their hair standing on end after eating one of the chocolate confections served at desert.

Malfoy received a Howler claiming to be from Lucius, warning him against throwing his name around casually, mentioning that it was utterly intolerable for a scion of the Malfoy family to just _lose_ a wand.

No one knew if it was a prank or not, but most people laughed anyway.

Angelica Johnson received a letter from what was purportedly George Weasley, and incensed at its contents, had slapped him.

And Peeves, the castle poltergeist, had started lobbing enough dungbombs around that Quirrell had broken down and taught the class the use of the _Skruge_ and _Langlock _charms. The first could be used to clean up ectoplasm and give a nasty poke to spirits, while the latter was a means to shut the ghost up.

…and well, to stop an opponent in a duel from being able to cast verbal spells, as Quirrell had explained later, though a powerful enough _Finite_ _Incantatem_ would cancel its effect.

Even the common rooms were not safe.

The Soap in Slytherin's bathrooms had been switched out for Frog Spawn Soap, with an irate Severus Snape having to eliminate the resultant infestation of frogs, and a very unfortunate Draco Malfoy caught alone in the showers, buried under a heap of the relentless amphibians.

For days afterwards, all it took to make him jump was someone going "ribbit."

Shinji had been covered in glue and feathers on coming out of the corridor to the private study rooms one morning. Glue and feathers that had, on coming into contact with water, transfigured itself into a very small wyvern ala a delayed _Draconifors_ Spell (much less powerful and resistant than an actual wyvern, of course).

Shinji, after knocking the false wyvern to the ground with one of his explosive ofuda and binding it in place with another, had attempted the difficult feat of untransfiguring the object with the common _Reparifarge _spell, but alas, such a spell was normally only used for partial transfigurations.

In the end, he had had to ask Hillard for help, with the prefect using the _Herbifors_ transfiguration to transform the creature into a bouquet of flowers, which he then gallantly presented to the Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang as she headed off to practice, wishing her luck for their first match against Hufflepuff.

She'd blushed, and he had to good grace not to mention that it had been transfigured from feathers and glue used as a prank.

In retaliation for this incident, one of the toilets in the Gryffindor dorms had been enchanted to regurgitate instead of flush, as Fred Weasley and George Weasley had found out, much to his chagrin.

The Hufflepuffs were of course untouched, but then, no one knew where their common room was, and there was nothing to be gained from bringing a fourth party into the clash – a fourth party whose occasional pranksters had been notorious for subtlety and…inventiveness.

So far, no obvious culprits had been identified, as the Houses were not talking, though all suspected who they were. In Ravenclaw alone…

Hermione Granger, for instance, looked upon both Shinji and Prefect Hillard with flat disapproval, given that she thought their actions had brought disaster – and loss of points – on Ravenclaw House. Yes, what happened to Shinji had been cruel, but to attack the caretaker and move on to prank others, perpetuating the cycle of violence was uncalled for, she thought. Breaking the rules and possibly getting hurt – or expelled! – was not the right thing to do in _any_ situation.

Penelope had held her peace, as the other houses were losing points as well, and Percy had remained untouched, which was all she asked. The other prefects, while not entirely happy about the situation, were amused that Ravenclaw was giving as good as it got – for once.

As for Sokaris – well, Sokaris sightings had become rarer than ever.

After the second time her hair had been pranked, she had all but vanished from sight, with no one having seen her outside of class – except for perhaps the occasional appearance at dinner – in over a week.

And then came Halloween…

* * *

><p>Twas one of the biggest holidays in all of the wizarding world – both for its nature when witches could dress up and make merry among mundanes without the latter realizing the nature of the former, as well as for the fact that on this day, a decade ago, the war against Voldemort had ended.<p>

Had been ended, rather, with the death of Voldemort when he had attempted to kill Harry Potter, but had himself been killed, with Harry becoming the Boy-Who-Lived, but losing his parents in the process.

Harry had mentioned this in some of the letters Shinji had traded with him, in which the Japanese boy had mentioned interesting tidbits and laid out the basic instructions on how to make _ofuda_, along with sample _ofuda_ so Harry to mimic, which he hoped would make it easier for Harry to make his own, especially as they had now started learning some spells and knew what casting felt like. Harry, for his part, had given up the passwords to Slytherin as well as mentioning the current conditions in the House of Snakes.

Apparently Halloween was a tense time there, as Harry's presence ruffled the feathers of the children of those who had followed Voldemort – Draco Malfoy chief among them, though his standing had been greatly diminished as of late. And though Harry found classes interesting, and had enjoyed actually learning a few spells in class – most recently the Levitation Charm - _wingardium leviosa – _he had been struck by how lonely Slytherin was.

In many ways, once sorted into the House of Snakes, one was on one's own, jockeying for advantage, learning to protect oneself, and building a powerbase – the last of which Harry had had a leg up on due to his influence.

There were not a few people who thought that he might be either the next Dumbledore – or the next Voldemort – and so were eager to curry favor with him, something he was uncomfortable with. There were a few people he was on relatively good terms with – Parkinson, Greengrass, and Davis – one of which he was almost always seen with at classes or meals – but with whom he feared to share too much, lest people look at him like the Boy-Who-Lived-Under-The-Stairs, a "Mudblood" who hadn't known about magic until he got his letter.

And then there was Shinji, who knew his secret – who right now, was the _only_ one who knew his secret. Shinji who had defended him, Shinji who was thought to be an exotic foreign wizard with dark knowledge, Shinji who many in Slytherin were impressed with for his utter ruthlessness and how he had gotten away with nearly burning Argus Filch alive.

…the fact that Shinji had not intended to set the fire notwithstanding, and had acted to protect himself notwithstanding, as rumors had a life of their own.

The same Shinji who had given the Boy-Who-Lived basic instructions for sealing and destructive _ofuda_ so that Harry would be able to get some privacy in Slytherin House by sealing his bed curtains. He'd done so via owl, as with the ongoing Prank War, the Matou boy had judged that meeting with the Boy-Who-Lived in person outside of class was not a good idea.

To his way of thinking, no one had yet dared to prank the Boy-Who-Lived, and he wasn't about to let Harry become a target of opportunity in the war.

A War that Shinji intended to end today, once and for all. The Halloween festival and decorating for it had been wonderful cover for the masterful works of pranking to be done, with the Great Hall festooned with sweets-filled pumpkins, bats, orange streamers, water snakes and all sorts of Hallowe'en-related decorations.

Even the ghosts were in a jolly mood – sans Peeves – whose own mood had been rather foul, given the number of times he had been poked and prodded by _Skruge_ or made to stop his foul taunts with _Langlock_.

But not so the humans.

To those who were sensitive to such things, it was one of those nights when the very air seemed fey and fell, the atmosphere charged, nerves frayed and moods fraught with tension under strained veneers of happiness.

For most, it was the psychological cost of the Great Hogwarts Prank War taking its toll at last – the fact that anyone might be struck down at any time, that nowhere was safe, not even the Common Rooms.

Paranoia was rife – but most expected – _hoped_ that the Halloween Feast itself would be safe. Yes, the pranksters had proven that they respected (almost) no boundaries. Yes, they had made their point, that every action would lead to retaliation, that no House could be dismissed as an easy target, but surely the Feast would be an end for it all.

After all, soon there would be Hogsmeade visits, club meetings, and other things to spend energy on.

And really, wasn't enough, enough?

Shinji and Hillard both agreed, as the Ravenclaw contingent in the Prank War had stayed clear of doing anything at the Feast itself.

…the main corridors of the school though, were considered fair game, and they had prepared enough in the way of various traps and pranks to at least annoy a small army – and to be fair, changing hair, robes and such to orange and black, and giving people pumpkin heads was very much in the spirit of the festivities – though more of their works was intended if there was retaliation.

Still, for all their preparation, the boy from the East was worried. As the days had ticked closer to Halloween, Harry had seemed more and more haggard each time Shinji had seen him in Herbology, with dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hadn't been sleeping well.

The Boy-Who-Lived had, of course, said and kept saying that nothing was wrong…

Until on this last day, when a note had come, the handwriting distinctively Harry's.

"_Can we talk? Grand Staircase, Second Landing, by the painting of Anne Boleyn. I don't feel like going to the Feast."_

* * *

><p>Worried about the Boy-Who-Lived, the boy he supposed he could call a friend, Shinji had gone to the designated place before the Feast, where he saw Harry standing alone, looking down upon the rest of Hogwarts, a melancholic look upon his face.<p>

"It was my fault," Potter spoke, as Shinji's footsteps came up behind him.

"What was, Harry?"

"Everything," the Boy-Who-Lived sighed, seeming utterly miserable. "Starting 10 years ago when…" He stopped for something close to a minute before continuing. "They're dead because of me. My parents. I know it, somehow."

"Harry," Shinji began. He wasn't very good at reassuring people, since he'd never really had to do it before. "It wasn't your fault."

But Harry's hands balled into fists, as the bespectacled youth trembled.

"But it was…I can see more of it than I used to. That night, I mean," he managed, his eyes looking somewhere far away. "It used to be just a flash of green light and then a burning pain on my forehead. But now I hear her…my mum…"

The Boy-Who-Lived looked utterly distraught as Shinji came up, gingerly putting a hand on his shoulder. Matou Shinji was perhaps one of the worst people to try and comfort someone, given his own past, but at the moment, he was the only one there.

"What does she say, Harry?" he asked gently.

"'_Not Harry!'" _Harry whispered, his voice shaking as he spoke those remembered words. Words that appeared night after night in his dreams. "'_Please, no, not Harry—I'll do anything!_'" He swallowed, his expression screwing up into a mess. "Right after…my dad…says to take me…" Then he opened his eyes again, his eyes hollow and cold. "…and run. So you see…it _was_ my fault. Voldemort came for me – and my parents died in my place."

Shinji didn't really know what to say to that. If it were true…what did it mean?

"Why…"

Shinji didn't know what to say to that either.

"Why me…"

He didn't know, but…

"Because they cared about you, as any parents should," Shinji said, unhappily reminded of his own father – that broken drunk of a man with no talent - had never really loved him. His mother…he didn't know much about her, he was coming to realize. He only know she'd died too. Still… "Whatever happened, they would have protected you."

"But that doesn't…why me? Why did he come for me?"

"…that, I can't begin to say," he admitted. Whatever else he knew, he himself didn't know why the greatest practitioner of the Dark Arts would hunt down a child.

"…you got hurt because of me too," Harry said, as if Shinji hadn't spoken at all. "This whole prank war. You getting set on fire. Malfoy being a prat. Filch trying to kill you. Everyone thinking you're a dark wizard…it's because you were my friend."

Well, part of that Shinji could correct, so he did.

"Honestly, I think I would have been pranked even if I wasn't," the boy from the East said, shaking his head. "I stand out too much. Just not as much as you do. And just because no one would dare prank the Boy-Who-Lived doesn't make my choices your fault."

"…I…"

"Tell me, Harry, what _do_ you want?" asked the Matou boy. "Say it's true, and your parents died for you. What will you do with that life?"

"...I…"

"You're in Slytherin, Harry, so what did the Hat tell you?"

"…that I could become great."

"And why do you want that?"

"…so I can live up to what everyone expects of me," Harry whispered, still shaking. "So my parents dying won't have been..."

"…in vain."

In the distance, an inhuman roar echoed, coming from—

"Shit."

—where Hillard had said he was going to be.

"What?"

"Something's wrong – I hear fighting. From where the pranking was going to happen. Let's go," Shinji said, his voice suddenly businesslike. "Potter, do you have your ofuda?"

"Some, but…shouldn't we tell the teachers?" Harry asked, uncertain. He knew he didn't know enough to fight something like that with his wand, but…

"There's no time," Shinji replied, breaking into a run. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Sokaris making her way up to the Third Floor, but while he was tempted to follow…_no. She can handle herself. Whatever is happening, Hillard needs me more._ "Follow if you want."

He wasn't entirely surprised to find that Harry started running after him.

"…did you really try to kill Filch?"

"No. But even if I did, he tried to kill me. Would you let Voldemort go if he tried to kill you?"

"…no," Harry said, his jaw clenching as he remembered that hated green light - that light that had taken his parents. "No, I wouldn't."

* * *

><p>The intrepid duo arrived to see a most unexpected sight.<p>

Fred and George Weasley, fighting alongside Robert Hillard, their sometimes friend and often foe, facing down…

_Holy—_

—a fully grown mountain troll, its skin a dull granite grey, its great lumpy body like a moving mountain, with thick stubby legs and a huge wooden club that it dragged along the floor.

And it was covered head to toe in rotten tomatoes, crushed pumpkins, feathers, and red and gold paint, and what looked like the remains of dungbombs. Pretty orange streamers that had once festooned the corridor now trailed from its arms and legs.

'…_did that thing set off every trap we had set up?'_

_Fwoom!_

With a speed that shouldn't be possible with its bulk, the troll spun around viciously, swinging the crude – but massive – club, nearly smashing the closest of the redheads – George or Fred – Shinji couldn't tell which.

The three pranksters gave each other a _look_ and as one shouted "_Expelliarmus_", aiming for the club.

With a _crack_, three blinding, jagged jets of scarlet light flew through the air. Shinji was reminded for a second of lightning, but instead of killing the troll, or slamming it to the ground, the bolts struck the club, one after the other—

And the club flew free, spinning through the air towards – and past – Shinji and the Boy-Who-Lived, missing them by scant centimeters as it slammed into the ground with a resounding _crash!_

But the troll just roared, incensed that these…puny beings had managed to strip of its weapon.

_Fwhoom!_

Its arms made to grab them, even as they leapt back.

"Oh…that wasn't the best idea we've ever had, oh brother of mine," one of the redheads said.

"No kidding, brother of mine."

But it was Hillard whose eyes had tracked the motion of the club – who saw the first years it had flown past, and who was in full prefect mode now.

"Matou, Potter, this isn't a fight for you first years," he barked – the first time he'd actually spoken an order in Shinji's recollection. "Run. We'll hold it off!"

More coruscating spell beams shot through the air, pushing at the troll, with several mini-wyverns just formed from the rubble launching themselves towards it as a distraction, though they were brushed aside – smashed, rather - by fists like boulders.

"_Glacius!"_ came a cry from the twin redheads, as a freezing wind _howled, _going for the troll's eyes. "Go. We'll get it somehow. Can't let the firsties down, eh brother of mine?"

"You said it, brother. _Glacius_!"

The troll reeled back, halted from continuing as the cutting ice winds lanced for its eyes…only to lower its head—

"Oh…bugger…"

...and charge, breaking past the pocket of resistance, only to be sent stumbling by a quickly conjured patch of ice, so that it crashed headlong into the ground. It raged and roared and thrashed, but it was having some trouble getting back on its feet.

"_Stupefy!_" Hillard shouted, the blazing bolt of red striking the troll and pausing it momentarily.

But it was not long enough, as it began to get its footing, snarling at the attempt to stop it.

"Come on – hold the line! We can't let it get past us," Hillard called out. "Otherwise, by Merlin's bloody balls, it has a straight shot to the Great Hall! Potter, Matou – go! Now!"

He didn't need to spell out what would happen if a troll got to the Hall while everyone was feasting and unprepared. Didn't need to say how many could be hurt – could die – if they failed. Yes, a teacher could stop it, but if they were surprised? There was a very real risk someone could die.

Fred and George scrambled ahead, taking up position beside him, glancing at each other. They were pranksters, it was true, but before that they were students of Hogwarts, who loved the school and the people in it.

And they were Gryffindors – the bravest of the brave – the ones who charged into the breach where the fighting was fiercest – who could not, would not stop in the face of death.

They would stop the troll – or they would die trying.

The wise thing to do for a first year – for any first year – would have been to run, to head to the Great Hall, to warn the teachers, obey. No spells they'd learned so far could stop the troll, after all, but—

"No." A voice said, firmly, though the body it belonged to was shaking, as it lifted its wand and pointed it at the troll. "No. No one else is dying in my place."

"Sod it, Potter, you may be the Boy-Who-Lived, but—"

"I'm staying too," Shinji spoke up, brandishing his wand as well.

Hillard looked at them as if he wanted to curse their names into the ground, but just took a deep breath.

"Fine. Have it your way – look out, it's coming!"

With a transcendent roar of rage, the troll barreled forward, as the five scattered, blasting it with five glowing spell beams once they were out of the way. These didn't do much either, as it just broke through.

"This isn't working – its resistance is too high," Hillard noted, glancing over at Potter and Matou. "Even with the extra help…"

_Boom! Boom!_

The troll halted in its steps as its face was hit by a foul – and foul-smelling – projectile. Off-balance, the troll reeled, another projectile or three sending it crashing into the castle wall, as the five took advantage of the opportunity to move past it once again, interposing their bodies between it and the Great Hall.

Backup had arrived.

The unlikeliest backup of all, a little blue man floating in the eye, dressed in loud, outlandish clothes including a bell-covered hat and an orange bow tie.

Peeves – the castle poltergeist - with a sack of dungbombs, no less.

"_Peevesy, Peevesy, they all say he's droll  
>but twas Peevesy-weevesy who blew up a troll!"<em>

Well, maybe he hadn't blown it up, he'd staggered it, taken it off balance from the unexpected aerial assault. And this meant that those down below had a chance.

But a chance for what.

"I tried stupefy, but I don't have the power to take it down alone," Hillard muttered. "Fred, George, ideas?"

"Kill it—"

"—with fire?" the twins suggested, much to Hillard's irritation. Yes, it might work, since Trolls didn't like fire at the best of times, but only if the beast was still.

"Matou?"

"Let me try something," Shinji said, as an idea burst into his head even as the dungbombs rained down.

The troll wouldn't be held back long by this attack, he knew but…

_Darkness. That's what we need. Darkness – then maybe the flashbomb strategy I thought of. If we can disorient it, slow it down…then maybe bind it?_

"Potter, use your ofuda on it!" Shinji ordered, as Harry blinked, thinking there was no way he would go up and slap a piece of paper on the oncoming troll. "Just picture it flying and sealing the troll. Release the paper!"

Harry complied, with a grunt, throwing an empowered strip of paper towards the troll.

The first one stuck – no effect.

"Again!"

The second one – no effect.

"Again!"

The third, fourth, and fifth – no effect.

The sixth, seventh, eighth—no, _wait…is that it? Not enough._

But Shinji couldn't afford to second guess, not with only meters between them and the troll. He reached inside himself, to the feeling he'd had when he first picked up his wand. He opened the door to the power sleeping there and thrust the wand forward towards the troll.

_There!_

Darkness leapt forth from his wand, a thick, heavy mist that consumed all light in its path as it rushed hungrily at the troll, swirling about it, engulfing it entirely with an angry hiss, looking like nothing so much as a cloud of thick ink surrounding the behemoth.

"Flash!" he cried out then, two ofuda shooting into the congealed, living darkness and erupting into twin explosions of pure, white light.

The troll _roared_, flailing as it lunged forward – in the direction of the flashes – smashing a number of suits of armor flat.

Fred and George seemed to get the idea, rapid-firing _Flipendos _at the very center of the cloud of darkness - where they presumed the troll must be - to keep it off balance.

"The next intersection –"

"Flash!"

More ofuda flew out, for more explosions.

"- there's one more trap we think could work," they said between casts, beginning to move backwards as they cast, since there was not enough room in the corridor to really deal with it.

"Alright, Weasleys, we'll do this your way," Hillard grumbled, sending yet another stream of crimson light at what was hopefully the troll. "You'd better be right about this."

"_Flash!_"

A cluster of flashbombs this time, with the cloud jerking back - the troll within stumbling about as if drunk.

"Of course—"

"—who better to know our traps than us?"

"It would help if it was slowed down more—"

"—or it might get through before we can work it."

The three looked at each other.

"_Arresto Momentum_!" the three wand users cried out as one, their wands pointed at the oncoming mass of darkness, summoning forth what strength they had left to try and slow its movement.

"It's not working!"

"Well…not enough!"

The troll had slowed a little, but the spellbeams had irritated it, and now it was following the sound of their voices forward - forward towards where the assault had come. Lumbering, grinding death advancing forward.

"Hey, _wakame_, whatever you used on Filch. Use it now!" Fred called, as Shinji and Harry moved to comply. "Staggering won't be enough - we need it stopped!"

The group fell back, the wand users pausing momentarily in their assault to scramble back, to avoid a lunge, with Harry and Shinji leaping backwards—

—and unleashing all manner of ofuda upon the beast making its way towards them.

Paper filled the air, strips of sealed power pouring from their sleeves into the gaping void before them.

Sealing ofuda.

Binding ofuda.

Anything at all that would be remotely useful to slow down the creature, to control its movement.

All these were hurled forth, with nothing held back, nothing left in reserve.

"Bind," Shinji whispered as he launched his empowered talismans into the approaching cloud of darkness, taking a step back at a time. "Bind. Bind. Bind. _Bind. Bind. Bind. Bind_!"

Harry did not speak as much as prayed, as his much smaller stock of papers – all that he had managed to scrape up and make over two weeks, shot forward as if with a life of their own, disappearing into the darkness.

_'Bind. Please. Bind. Please. Stop in place!'_

At first, there was no effect. What effect could little bits of paper have on a moving mountain after all? But they kept on, kept launching, kept hurling forth their stores of power.

No effect.

No effect.

No-_hey_.

But eventually, their persistence was rewarded. It was small, barely noticeable at first as they ran for their lives, but when they noticed it, a ragged cheer went up from the group.

Slowly, ever so slowly – the movement of the cloud of darkness - the jerkiness of it - seemed to be slowing down.

Shinji was heartened by this.

This plan - hurling everything he had at the Troll, wasn't a great one by any means. Certainly it wasn't one that would go down in the history books, but…it seemed like it was working. Since the troll was resistant to magic, he had gambled - hoped that he could overcome it with sheer power. Yes, individually, no single spell a first year - or even a third year - could toss at a troll could hope to effect it much, but this wasn't one individual spell.

This was tens of spells. Dozens of spells. A hundred and more spells.

Day after day after day Shinji had labored to make these _ofuda_, storing his power into these strips of paper until he had a need, bleeding himself nearly dry of prana every night…

…and a need was before him now, as paper flew, and flew and _flew_, all bearing his will to _bind_ and _seal_ the enemy, to _stop_ its movement.

And bind, they did. The first two, five, ten, had no effect, but the twenty fifth, the thirty fifth, the fiftieth.

They _worked._

The great mass of darkness began to slow, as his accumulated will and prana, stacking with the few Potter had made, built and built - until at last it overpowered the troll's innate resistance, and slowly began to lock up its muscles.

The three older pranksters blinked at this, marveling that first years had been able to slow this thing more than they, but were not going to look a gift horse in the mouth if it was working.

"_Arresto Momentum_!" the three wand users cried out at once, adding their power to the first years', exerting themselves to the utmost as they fell back, fell back, fell back…leapt back...

…until at last, they were through the intersection.

They were through, but the troll remained within.

"Peeves—

—do it now!"

With daemonic laughter, dung-bombs rained down on the troll, more dungbombs that Shinji had imagined existed in the world, the darkness-wreathed monster thrashing from the assault – lunging forward – _was it slower now – _as the ground beneath its feet crumbled, turning into a bog.

And the beast _sank_, its mass working against it as every move it made, every slow step it took forced it deeper and deeper into the watery mess of the bog, until it was waist deep.

_Stuck._

"…that is one impressive spell," Robert said, looking at Fred and George. "We stopped it."

"That may be, but its still angry—"

"—time to finish it. Kill it—"

"—with fire _now?"_

"Alright. Well, lads, I've always wanted to say this once," Robert chuckled, a dark gleam in his eyes as he brandished his wand. "FIRE EVERYTHING!"

Light.

Fire.

Sound and fury.

Destruction reigned, chaos was unleashed as the five took vengeance on the troll, five brothers in arms who stood united.

Spell beams flew from Harry and the Pranksters, tearing apart the darkness with their sheer power, ozone filling the air as blasting curses, cutting curses, a redactor curse and more crashed into the troll.

Strips of paper, glowing this time, surged ahead from Shinji, detonating one after another in gouts of flame, light, and sheer concussive force.

A troll _screamed_ in agony – a horrible, terrifying sound that was far more disturbing than its roars of fury had been.

And Peeves – seeing the last few ofuda launched – gathered a mass of them from the air, clumping them with his ectoplasm into a great glowing sphere of power, as the foul little poltergeist surged forward, crying out—

"_Stay on target, stay on target peevesey-weavesy!_

_There can be only one, only one troll at Hogzwarts!"_

—as he _slammed _the glowing mass through the darkness, into what must have been the Troll's gullet, as there was a muffled _whoo-boom_. The troll screamed—gurgled—and then fell silent. Finally, all was still, though an incredible stench resembling nothing so much as burning flesh and sewage, mingled with eau de burst septic tank now filled the clearing.

The wand users stayed on guard even so, watching for any sign of movement, listening for any trace the troll might yet remain…

…as the cloud of darkness dispersed to reveal its charred, headless, torso – and Peeves teabagging the corpse, singing_ "Oh, there's no kill like overkill…" _over and over in an incredibly, annoying, off key voice.

It was this scene – this incredible, indescribable scene to which words alone could not do justice – that Professors Snape, Flitwick, and McGonagall walked in on, only to freeze in shock.


	13. Stone Cutter Society

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13.<strong> _Stone Cutter Society_

After thoroughly checking the dungeons, where they had deployed _en masse_ after Quirrell's warning about a loose troll, only to find nothing, the teachers had begun a sweep of the castle, as a troll wandering the halls could be very dangerous indeed. This was why the Great Feast had been cancelled – why the Prefects of each House had been ordered to lead students back to the dormitories.

Now, some might consider this unwise, as Slytherin House's dormitory was located in what some would consider the dungeons, but with the teachers providing something of an escort, it was deemed to be safe enough.

And in the event the teachers were not there, with six prefects per house, it was believed that that would be enough to stall – if not subdue – a troll.

Fortunately, that theory had gone untested, as there was no sign of the troll in the dungeons.

Apparently, it had escaped, with no one having a clue where it was – until a series of explosions, roars and screams of pain had oh-so-helpfully pointed the way, with Heads of House Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Flitwick charging to the rescue, hoping they weren't too late.

…none of them had expected to find the troll already defeated. No, not just defeated, _dead_ and _half sunken through the floor_, with Peeves singing about killing and pretty little bombs, while doing a very obscene act to the massive headless corpse.

Also unexpected were the five students who presumably had been responsible for subsuing the troll with extreme prejudice, their wands pointed towards the carcass in case it so much as _twitched._

Two were first years, one being of course, the Boy-Who-Lived, and the other the boy from the East, as he was coming to be called.

Two were the notorious Weasley Twins, the troublemakers who everyone at the castle suspected of being responsible for the recent epidemic of pranks.

And one…one was a prefect.

Someone, to Professor McGonagall's mind, who should have been in his dormitory as an example to the rest of his House. Someone who had been entrusted with a modicum of power by his Head of House – and who by being here had apparently betrayed his trust and duty.

"_What on earth were you all thinking?!_" asked Professor McGonagall, her face pale with fury and anger in her voice. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory? Especially you, Hillard – you should have helped lead your House to Ravenclaw Tower and stay there. The Weasley Twins I can guess, but I expected better of you, as a Prefect. Likewise you, Misters Potter and Matou."

Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look, disappointed with one of his Slytherins for having willingly sought danger. Or worse, in his mind, _seeking glory._

Harry looked at the floor.

"Minerva, perhaps we should give them a chance to explain?" Filius Flitwick commented, wanting to get to the bottom of what happened before any censure was made. "After all, I'm sure that they have a reasonable explanation for being here. Members of Ravenclaw House are not known for rushing into danger, and I don't recall seeing Prefect Hillard at the Halloween Feast, so he could not have heard the order to return. Now then, Prefect, if you could explain all this?"

Robert Hillard pocketed his wand and stepped forward to face the three teachers, his robes and hair messy from the fight, his face somewhat scratched up.

"Professors Flitwick and Snape, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall," he began, looking at each of the teachers in turn and noting their stern faces. "As a prefect of Ravenclaw House, I take full personal responsibility for the incident, and will willingly accept whatever punishment you see fit, including any you may wish to give the others."

As the person with the most authority on the scene before the arrival of the teachers, it was his duty to shoulder the blame if there was any to be had. Whether or not the Professors found his explanation reasonable, he was a Prefect – a leader among students – and he knew that because of that, they would censure him worse than any of the others. The least he could do, after the others had come to help, was to spare them punishment.

"No one is casting blame or doling out punishment, Prefect Hillard," Flitwick said reasonably, impressed by his Prefect's willingness to come forward. "Explanation first, if you please."

"As you wish, sir," Hillard acknowledged, giving his Head of House a small nod. "As the Deputy Headmistress mentioned, I was indeed not at the Feast, having been delayed by personal issues. Prefect Clearwater knows of my concerns, given the recent rise in the incident of pranks."

"Continue."

"During the course of a quick patrol, I encountered the Troll, which proceeded to attack," he said, remembering how the hulking figure had come upon him in the halls, and those first, desperate minutes of fighting. "Retreat was not an option, given the lack of opportunity to disengage and the fact that had I done so, the troll would have headed for the Great Hall, down this corridor. As a Prefect, it is my highest duty to protect the students – especially the students of my house – from danger. The Weasley Twins found me as I was attempting to hold it back and lent their efforts to the cause."

McGonagall blinked at this. This sounded much more reasonable than the scenario she'd had in mind so far, but…

"What about the first years, Hillard?" she asked, as she found it hard to believe first years would simply be wandering the halls instead of going to the Halloween Feast.

"Potter and Matou encountered the three of us shortly after we had disarmed the troll – you will find the club back that way – and seeing that our efforts were not enough, did what they could to help," the prefect noted tonelessly. "Their contributions played a decisive role in stopping the troll."

"I see," Flitwick said, picturing the action in his head as he noted the bog in the intersection, the destroyed, blackened troll, and more. "Impressive spellwork, certainly. And if a prefect is vouching for the Weasley Twins, I suppose that something in itself."

"A question, if I may," Snape chimed in, his eyes looking into Harry's. "Potter, why were you not at the Feast?"

"…because my parents died today, sir," the Boy-Who-Lived whispered, with the expression of the others – who hadn't thought about that – softening. "Celebrating that wouldn't have been…right."

"Yes…we understand, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said a bit more gently. She remembered that night ten years ago, that terrible night when You-Know-Who had been stopped at last. "But may I ask why you decided to fight the troll? You and Matou both. The wise thing for a first year to do would have been to go for help."

"…with all due respect, Professor," Harry answered quietly, his eyes still haunted by what he had seen in his dreams these past few weeks. "I didn't want to let someone die in my place. Again. Not when there was something – anything – I could do."

"Good heavens, Mr. Potter," McGonagall replied, finding his tone – his gaze – unsettling. "Whatever are you…"

"I _remember_,"the Boy-Who-Lived answered, his expression a terrible thing. "He – Voldemort – came for _me_."

Those words chilled those who heard it to the bone – the Professors because they either could not conceive of it – or knew very well why the Dark Lord had come for Harry – the students because this did explain why an eleven year old boy would hurl himself into danger.

"And you, Matou?" McGonagall said more quietly. "Why did you fight the troll?"

"Harry is my friend, Professor, as is Hillard," Shinji responded evenly. "I wasn't at the Feast either – the food upsets my stomach. But with respect, if they were going fight something that big, I wasn't going to abandon them."

Not and become the Boy-Who-Turned-His-Back or the Boy-Who-Ran.

"Professors," Prefect Hillard spoke once more, "without their help, the Weasleys and I would have lost. So if you wish to punish them, punish me instead."

"One moment, Prefect," Professor Flitwick said, nodding to the one he had appointed, thinking he had not chosen wrong. "Minerva, Severus – I don't think they've done anything wrong, do you?"

Snape harrumphed but said nothing.

McGonagall's lips remained tight and drawn, but she waved for Flitwick to continue.

"First, none of them were at the Feast, so they couldn't have heard the order to return to the dormitories. Second, the fact that a group of students so decisively took action to protect others – actually defeating a troll in the process – should be commended, not condemned, don't you agree?"

None of the others said anything to counter him, so Flitwick went ahead.

"20 points for each of you then, for outstanding spellwork and courage beyond most," the Head of House Ravenclaw announced, taking some amusement from – but also slightly disturbed by - the stunned expression on the students' faces. "Taking on a fully-grown mountain troll is no small task, even for most wizards. And Prefect Hillard…"

"Yes, Professor?"

"…an additional 10 points for you for going above and beyond the call of duty."

Flitwick felt this was justified. These students had fought against something that should have outmatched them with no expectation of reward or glory. In fact, they'd thought they would be punished for their deeds – but had fought anyway, to protect the school and protect each other, in a startling display of interhouse unity.

"Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this," McGonagall added. "Now, if you're not hurt, you'd best be off to your dorms. The students are finishing the feast in their Houses. Dismissed."

The group of five walked together for a time down the common corridor, away from the troll they had brought down. There was some talk about returning to their common rooms, then of throwing a party for their victory – and for the points they'd won – in one of the rooms, but which one?

Slytherin had never been too welcoming of outsiders; Gryffindor was not somewhere Harry wanted to be, after his encounter with the youngest Weasley brother; Ravenclaw had never been known for its parties.

Still, it seemed they would have to choose one – until Fred and George came up with a better idea, pointing out that there was one other place they knew of which would be good for a party.

* * *

><p>After some further, not entirely reputable, hijinks, the five found themselves in the great Kitchens of Hogwarts, a vast, high-ceilinged room with five tables identical in detail and positioning to the ones in the Great Hall above. It was certainly like no kitchen Shinji had ever seen, with large quantities of pots and pans heaped around the stone walls, presumably on counter-tops or stoves, and a large brick fireplace at the other end of the hall from the door.<p>

After Shinji had voiced his complaints about the usual food at Hogwarts' – even the non-pranked versions, and Harry had mentioned he would like something not quite so festive, given what else had happened that day, the twins had merrily led the group down a tangled set of corridors to a painting of a bowl of fruit.

One of the twins had tickled the pear in the painting, which had then squirmed, laughed, and transformed into a green door-knob, much to Shinji and Harry's surprise. Hillard didn't seem overly surprised, but then, the twins had to have pranked Ravenclaw's food _somehow._

But if Shinji was surprised by the size of the Kitchens or how one got there, he was even more surprised by the cooks - by the fact that they were not _human._

House elves, Fred and George called them, little creatures a meter tall at most, with spindly arms and legs and over-sized heads and eyes. They certainly didn't look much like the elves of Tolkien or modern lore, but they _did_ resemble what some of the old tales said about faeries, with pointed, bat-like ears, bulging green eyes, and high, squeaky voices.

And interestingly, what they wore seemed almost Roman, with towels or pillowcases repurposed into what seemed like togas.

"These are the cooks who make all of our food," Fred explained, gesturing around at the droopy-eared creatures, some of which were scrubbing pots and pans, some of which were cooking, and a few of which were looking at the newcomers curiously. "Never seen a house-elf before?"

"None where I grew up," Harry admitted.

"We don't have them in Japan," Shinji chimed in, looking at these creatures curiously. "Can they do magic? Do they need wands?"

He figured that he could pass off any ignorance of certain magical traditions by noting that they were British traditions, with him being much better versed in those of the East.

"They don't need a wand—

"—to do their magic. In fact, its—"

"—illegal to give them wands," the twins explained, before going over to the grouping of house-eleves.

Hillard elaborated that the Code of Wand Use, passed by the Wizards' Council (predecessor to the Ministry) in 1631, barred all non-human creatures from carrying or use a wand."

This Shinji found ironic, given that he didn't think these practitioners of witchcraft were entirely human either…

But he didn't have time to think further, as one of the house-elves padded over to the group and bowed.

"How is Kizzy be helping young masters today?"

"We're having a party, and we need—"

"—lots of food."

They waved Shinji forward, with the eastern boy mentioning how the normal meals were too heavy for him. There was a bit of back and forth, with Shinji laying out what he normally ate, the House Elves being profusely apologetic at not having most of the ingredients to make them. No seaweed. No pasta of any sort – though it could be made, as they had flour. No _rice_. Little in the way of eastern fare.

The others looked on in fascination as he questioned, haggled, suggested, went back and forth with the elves seeming to think of how they could meet his needs.

In the end, they settled on something a main dish of salt ramen, with hand-made noodles, fresh local vegetables (carrots, leek, and corn sliced very thin), thick slabs of deliciously marbled roast pork, all garnished with ginger, garlic, and butter. On the side would be a chicken curry pie with succulent chunks of tender meat and fresh just-cooked vegetables swimming in a rich golden-brown sauce, along with a potato croquette.

And for a drink – tea of course.

The house elves thought the request was utterly strange but…

"It is being no stranger than young masters' wanting worms," the house elves had said, with the little beings bustling off to do as they were told.

In the meantime, more traditional platters of baked pumpkin, golden brown potatoes, chips, and roast meats were set in front of the others, with Shinji helping himself to a bit of shepherd's pie, quite enjoying the roasted mashed potato crust, the nicely spiced minced mutton and pea filling, and the fried tomato slices on the side.

'_Ah, finally a meal I can enjoy.'_

When Shinji's custom cooked meal finally arrived, the others remarked on how good it looked and ordered helpings as well, with them finding the dish absolutely delectable.

But then, it was hard to find a teen who didn't like ramen, particularly the hand-made kind and not the instant rubbish one found in various markets.

Over food they talked of various things – the first order of business being an armistice to this latest Prank War. Given the fact that all parties involved had planned on finishing this by Halloween, and that on this day, they had become brothers in arms, fighting together against an massive evil-shaped foe and defeating it through creative use of spells – and judicious application of deadly force, the honor of all three houses had been satisfied.

So the Weasleys and Hillard agreed, and neither Potter nor Matou were going to gainsay them, especially with Shinji having no ofuda left at the moment. He'd have to rebuild his stock, and probably branch out into other areas.

Elemental spells could be useful, after all – he hadn't missed how ice spells had been very useful in keeping the troll off balance.

With that in mind…

"Why just an armistice?" Shinji asked then, thinking of something.

"Hm? You have a better idea, Firstie?" George – or was it Fred – asked.

"We'd love to hear it," the other twin filled in.

"Well…I want to learn some of the tricks you used," the Matou boy noted, looking pointedly at the redheaded prankster duos. "And I'm sure you're curious about what I did to slow down the troll."

"I'm kind of curious myself," Hillard mentioned. "That dark cloud you conjured, and the strips of paper - this has something to with your Eastern Arts, right?"

Shinji nodded.

"I won't show it off to someone who might use it against me," he said. "And an armistice means a war could break out again, so..."

"He has a point, brother of mine."

"He does indeed."

But it was Harry who got the idea first.

"You want some us to make kind of pact," the Boy-Who-Lived surmised. "Something so you won't have to worry about being pranked again."

"Hm, that's not a bad idea," Hillard commented, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "And clearly each of us have skills the others are curious about – I, for one, am curious about how the Weasley Twins seem to know so much about the castle."

"Ah, that—"

"—is a bit of a secret."

"Just as much of one as my paper Craft," Shinji replied, looking at everyone. "Unless we agree never to prank each other again - and can trade something useful for it."

He didn't fancy suddenly catching on fire in the future – not unless he learned to fireproof Ofuda somehow, and he didn't want to just _give away_ knowledge. That went against every principle a magus had.

"Well, we all have the pride of pranksters, so I think just agreeing to that is out," Hillard noted, closing his eyes for a moment.

"How about…joining a group then?" Potter asked, frowning as the group's attention fixed on him. "Or making one?"

_A place where he could belong_.

"That's…"

"…not…"

"…a half-bad idea, Potter," the three elder pranksters noted together.

"A group for mutual support and aid," Hillard noted.

"To share the art and skills of pranking—

"—but never to prank each other."

"To keep our secrets, but pool our strengths," Shinji concluded. "Like we did today."

"Well, as a prefect, I suggest we register ourselves as an interhouse study group, so we can get credit for our…learning," Hillard said, his lips pursed in thought. "That way, we can induct others into the group more easily in the future, or draw on others' expertise if we need to. We can even set the kitchens as our meeting place for extra incentive. What say you, gentlemen? Weasleys? Matou? Potter?"

"Hmm…would this be open to anyone—"

"—from any house?"

"As a club at Hogwarts, it would have to be open to people from all houses, though we can limit membership to people we vouch for, or with certain skills."

"Only people with something to contribute," Shinji insisted. "I don't want…well…"

"…toerags like Malfoy?"

"…right, or people who just want to learn our secrets and have nothing to offer in return."

"Ouch. So not, say—

"—ickle Ronnekins then…"

Potter made a face at the mention of the youngest Weasley brother.

"…I don't want to learn how to melt a cauldron," the Boy-Who-Lives groaned, thinking that would be a horrible skillset to have. "By accident, that is."

The twins facepalmed.

"For someone related to us, he's not all that bright."

"We think the brains went to Ginny, the youngest."

"Even if she's barmy about stories of the Boy-Who-Lived."

Potter flushed scarlet – something Shinji hadn't really seen in a boy before. He thought it was rather amusing.

"It needs a name," Hillard spoke, chuckling at the antics of the Gryffindors twins and the much younger Slytherin. "Somehow, I don't think _Interhouse Study Group_ will be very exciting."

"The Council of Four Houses?" Shinji proposed.

"…there's only three houses here, and that sounds like what a prat like Malfoy would come up with."

"The Troll Slayer Society? For both the grade and actual trolls, that is," Hillard suggested.

"Too—"

"—obvious."

That it was a bit cheesy and might raise a few eyebrows, even from the brave Gryffindors, who thought it was a way to show off, was another point in disfavor.

"The SOS Brigade?"

"_**No**__."_

None of them really wanted to be committed to defending everyone, everywhere, and reserved the right to prank others if needed.

"How about the 'Stone Cutter Society'?" Potter suggested, a name that wasn't immediately objectionable to anyone.

"You know…"

"…I kind of like it."

"It does take hard work to cut stone…" Hillard mused, a considering _'hmm' _on his lips.

"Breaking stone is a demonstration of skill in Martial Arts…"

"And Trolls are made of stone, right?"

"…close enough."

"Alright then," the prefect said with relish. "The Stone Cutter Society, led by its five founding members, with…oh, let's say, Potter as the president."

"…me?!" the Boy-Who-Lived exclaimed. "But…why me?" he asked, in a somewhat more subdued voice.

"Because you've already begun learning from Matou here, unless I miss my guess, and frankly, no one will join a club led by the Weasley Twins…"

"Oh, that burns, brother of mine, that burns, Gred!"

"I resemble that remark, Forge!"

"…Or a Ravenclaw prefect, since they think we're all stuffy," Hillard sighed. He was beginning to wonder if this was a bad idea. Still, they were almost done, they thought.

"Well, Percy might, but he fancies one anyway …"

"…we don't know why he was put in Gryffindor."

The twins shrugged at that.

"As for you, Matou, well, if a first year is going to be the official leader..."

"No, I understand," said Shinji, waving off the explanation. For he did understand, and it would honestly look better. Just as he had planned, after all, the higher Potter ascended, the higher he could rise too. At least in public, it would be bad for him to appear the dominant one in their friendship.

"Well, are we agreed, gentlemen?"

"Why not?" Shinji said, and the group of five proceeded to shake on the agreement – and then began talking about what they wanted to know.

Shinji was curious about some of the creatures of Britain and Europe in general, since quite frankly, the magical beings of Europe were not those found in the East. In particular, he wanted to know about house-elves and goblins, as well anything else that had a humanoid form, and their forms of magic.

He learned from the conversation that house-elves were domestic creatures immensely devoted and loyal to the one designated as their master, and that they didn't require wands to do their brand of magic – mostly domestic spells and Apparition. They were prized servants as well, symbols of wealth and prestige among pure-bloods, and loyal to the very word of their oaths.

They had no rights, however, and many were abused, due to their absolute obedience to orders. The ones at Hogwarts were not, of course, as Helga Hufflepuff herself had apparently laid down standards of how they should be treated, and they were out of sight enough that students didn't even think about them, even if they moved baggage, cleaned dormitories, and made the meals.

Goblins, he learned from Hillard, were a similarly small-statured but much more vicious race of intelligent creatures who co-existed with the "wizarding world." They apparently were quite adept at metalwork and finances, to the point that they were trusted to mint coins for the currency of the western wizarding world – the confusing system of knuts, sickles, and galleons

But even so, they were seen as second-class citizens under the rule of the Ministry, and in accordance with the Code of Wand Use, were not allowed to use wands. When Shinji wondered why that was, Hillard had just said they didn't need wands to do their magic, and that they had kept their own magic secret from wizards.

…this information, Shinji thought, gave more credence to his earlier speculation as to the hybrid origins of these practitioners of witchcraft.

For if goblins, house-elves, and these practitioners of witchcraft could all use the same kind of magic – as there would otherwise be no reason for goblins to keep their craft secret from humans, or for these human practitioners to keep the use of wands from the other species.

And given that at least goblins and humans were interfertile – as evidenced by Professor Flitwick's mixed ancestry - didn't that mean they were likely related? Very closely related in fact?

Perhaps they had all originated from a common line of human/faery hybrids, with three general variants. To him, it seemed very likely that Goblins had once been the dominant line, but that due to the human-line's ability to interact with other humans – perhaps early magi? – and learn of Mystic Codes and rituals, that line had managed to gain ascendance over the others.

Complete dominance over one – the house-elves, and then perhaps using the race they'd subjugated to gain incomplete dominance over the goblins, who retained a separate culture now.

Especially as the wand cores – as he remembered from the brief encounter with Hijiri – were usually specimens from living – or formerly living – "magical" (phantasmal) creatures.

Which would mean that, as he'd thought before, wands were not just amplifiers – they were resonators that – catalysts that enhanced a practitioner's own abilities.

And if this was usable by _any _of the lines…well, cursing by Merlin would be right._ That…_would explain where what had happened to the less than human hybrids, and why some of wizarding society seemed so fanatical about _pure_ blood.

…because their blood had never been pure to begin with – because they had been mixed from the start – and they were afraid that their secret would be exposed.

…or that further mixing would create a breed that might inconvenience – or worse – supplant them?

In a way, that would explain the extreme prejudice of the society – the _need_ to keep those they viewed as "lesser species" from getting regarded as equals, because once they were, people might start asking inconvenient questions. And if the right ones were asked and goblins perhaps obtained access to wands, well…

…they were at risk, weren't they? Risk of being crushed? Being betrayed? Being brought down as they had betrayed the others.

Shinji couldn't think of any other reason for goblin bitterness, after all. And he knew full well that it was those who had betrayed others who feared a knife in their back the most.

But the group was talking now of different things. Finances and currency, and whether this was the same in Japan?

"Not really, no," Shinji said, frowning a bit. "Much of what we teach doesn't need wands, and we don't use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts at Mahoutokoro."

"Blimey," one of the Twins replied. "What do you use then? Not Muggle money, I would think."

_Crystalized prana_, Shinji thought. But he didn't say it.

"Magic. Magic in its rawest, purest form," he said instead, remembering the small orbs and beads of light Touko had used. "Magical energy infused and stored into stones."

"Wow…" Harry murmured, picturing a world where magic itself was _money_. "That sounds wicked."

"Huh," Hillard said, blinking as he tried to mull that over in his head. "Your goblins must be out of work, eh?"

"Well…" And here was where Shinji was guessing, but was reasonably sure he was right, still. "We don't have Goblins in Japan."

That made the rest of the so-called Stone Cutters pause.

"…what kind of creatures _do_ you have there then?" one of the twins asked, with Shinji only too happy to tell what he knew – or at least as much as he could that sounded reasonable.

Instead of goblins, elves, centaurs, and other western creatures, Japan had others:

Kitsune – mischievous, powerful fox-spirits (normally female) who could take on human form, and had often seduced men. They were said as well to be excellent at curses and the use of elemental fire.

"Hmm, not unlike the Veela of Europe," Hillard noted. "Please continue."

Inugami – creatures of black magic which were created by cruel rituals to serve as familiars and protectors

"…is that like a dark version of the Patronus or something?" one of the Twins asked.

The Tengu – the spirits who lived in the mountains and the forest, vain and proud, but powerful in both magic and the arts of war.

"Oh, like Hippogriffs…or a Sphinx or both put together!"

"…only kind of."

The Oni – spirits of power and heat who manifested as giants – something of a cross between the fey, trolls, giants, and what have you.

…not that any full blooded Oni existed now, just hybrids like the mighty Tohno-clan.

And then there were the mischievous Kappa, who weren't too unlike the Kelpies of Europe.

The four Westerners had never considered such creatures might exist before, as their curriculum didn't cover them – and why would they? The British Ministry of Magic was only concerned with creatures in the European sphere of influence, the only ones its "wizards" might be exposed to on a regular basis.

They talked of other things as well, including wands, common cores and the like, and in the end, even laid out a few basics of spells and things to share at the next meeting.

And then the group of five, the brothers in arms, broke for the night, with returning their respective dormitories via House Elf apparition. After all, they reasoned, if the elves could apparate in to do the cleaning or to deliver food (for the interrupted Feast, for example), they could bring a few students back to the dorms.

* * *

><p>With a distinctive <em>Crack! <em>Hillard and Shinji reappeared in Ravenclaw tower, with Shinji wobbling about, hitting all fours as he appeared on the carpet.

That…had been terrible.

Everything had gone all black when the elf had grabbed him, with pressure crushing him from all sides. He felt as if he could not breathe, as if iron bands were tightening around his chest, his eyeballs being forced back into his head – as if he was being squeezed in to a far too tight tube.

Before light, sound and color had returned, with the elf heading back to the kitchens.

Shinji felt like throwing up, but Hillard's hand steadied him.

"First time, eh?" the prefect quipped, though the Matou boy was too queasy to appreciate it. "Yeah, it's usually that bad the first time. Sorry – just thought you'd want a faster way of getting back, since it's late."

"Why…yes, it _is _late, Robert," came a voice from one of the chairs by the fire, as the blonde and angry form of Penelope Clearwater stood and strode lithely to confront them. "Hillard, where in Merlin's name have you been? That useless Defense Professor, Quirrell, saw a troll in the dungeons. We had to take the students back to the dormitory – but you weren't there, and you weren't in the tower. The students were worried. _I _was worried_._"

"Penelope—"

"No, don't give me that," the other prefect ranted, her face flushed with emotion. "Your love of pranking is one thing, and Merlin knows I've held my tongue during these last two weeks, but your duty as a prefect—"

"Penelope."

"—what?" she asked, irritated at the interruption. "Robert Hillard, if you think you're going to sweet-talk your way out of this one, you've got another—"

"We killed the troll."

"—thing co…" But she trailed off, as what he said hit her. "…what did you just say?"

"The Weasley Twins. Myself. Potter and Matou," Robert explained quietly. "We killed the troll, together."

The blonde looked at her fellow prefect in shock and disbelief, trying to find any trace of deception, any sign this might be a prank, a bad joke…but there was none.

"_Nimue, Morganna and Maeve!" _she exclaimed, collapsing into a nearby chair. "You…you…killed a troll." She repeated heavily.

Then she started to laugh, a hollow, almost hysterical sound echoing from her lips.

"What?" she said, her body shaking – whether in rage or fear or what, she didn't know. "What, was it 10 points to Ravenclaw or something? Tell me you didn't go looking for it. Even if it's a lie, tell me that much at least."

"20, to each person involved," he corrected, walking over to her and putting a hand on her shoulder. "And no, I didn't go out looking for it."

"…you'd better not be lying to me, Robert," the blonde murmured, "Or I can make your life very difficult."

"…I _was_ the first to run into it, however," he admitted.

"…and you didn't think you could run away?"

"No. It would have headed right for the Great Hall. For the students – and for you."

"…Merlin." She sighed, leaning forward to cradle her forehead in her hand. "And then I guess the others joined in when you were having a hard time?" She didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "You boys always did love to make a splash."

"I can't say you're wrong, Penelope. No one was hurt though."

"…and the little prank war is over then?" she asked searchingly.

"Yes. It's amazing how many grudges get washed away when you risk your lives together," Robert commented, receiving a swat on his shoulder for his trouble.

"It's not funny, Robert…but…I'm glad you're alright."

"Me too," he admitted, lowering his head. "Until the Weasleys showed up…I didn't think I was coming back." And then his tone turned teasing. "And that would have ruined your first Hogsmeade weekend with Percy this year."

"Prat. I _was_ worried about you, and not because of that," Penelope grumbled, shaking her head. "That's why I stayed up, hoping you two would get back safely. Granger was up for a while too, waiting for Sokaris – those two only went to bed about an hour ago."

* * *

><p>Hearing that Sokaris had actually returned to the Ravenclaw Common Room, it didn't surprise Shinji too much that the purple-haired girl was waiting for him in the corridor shared by the study rooms.<p>

"Matou Shinji," she greeted him with a nod. "Congratulations are in order, I see."

"Sokaris," Shinji replied, thinking it was strange how her eyes seemed almost _red_ in the light, though he supposed it was just post-battle fatigue confusing him because on second glance, her eyes were their normal purple color. "You were out late?"

"Indeed, though my night was not as eventful as yours," the girl noted as she leaned against the wall. She was tense for some reason, almost…wary.

"Eventful is…one way to put it," Shinji conceded. He didn't actually feel like going—

"Indeed. I admit to being impressed that you defeated Quirrell's troll."

"Heh, well—" And then Shinji froze as his mind caught up to his mouth. "…_Quirrell's _troll?! How—"

"I saw him do it."

…Quirrell had…what…

Shinji had not thought anything of how the troll had gotten into the Castle, which was supposed to be difficult to breach at best. Unless…_someone brought it inside?_

"…tell me," he all but demanded, though his voice was hushed. "Please," he added. The boy from the east had had to risk his life tonight, and to use up all his ofuda besides.

"Professor Quirrell released a troll into the school – or rather, from the dungeons into the main area of the school," Sokaris relayed, her eyes hard. "He further announced in the Great Hall that a troll was in the dungeons, pretended to faint, and then disappeared in the chaos. The students were asked to go to their dorms, but I followed him."

"…so when I saw you going up to the Third Floor…"

"I was pursuing Quirrell."

Given that, it did not take a genius to deduce where both of them had gone.

"…the Forbidden Corridor," he breathed.

Was that it, then? Was the troll a distraction to allow Quirrell a chance to get to the Corridor while everyone else was preoccupied?

"Indeed, it was there he went," Sokaris related, frowning slightly. "But he did not get far. A Cerberus barred the way, and another pursuer stopped him from continuing. Professor Snape, head of Slytherin House."

Putting it that way, it seemed that the Third Floor Corridor was a trap, designed for Quirrell.

"Sokaris…" Shinji asked, more direct than usual. "Do you know what's hidden at Hogwarts? What was taken out of Gringotts?"

"I am not certain," Sokaris answered – which was the truth. "I have my suspicions, however."

"Anything you can tell me?" the boy from the East asked.

Anything she knew was probably more than he did. Especially if it fell into her area of interest.

_Renkinjutsu_…Alchemy.

But what could it be?

"I would prefer to verify my suspicions first," the purple-haired girl answered, looking at Shinji intently. "You are free to speculate as you wish. You may even be correct, but research would be useful."

In Alchemy, the only relic of note that he knew of was what every magus knew of, that mythical item Alchemists considered the Holy Grail…

'…_no. It can't be. Could one of_ those actually be at_ Hogwarts?!'_

This would require further investigation, but for now...

"Can you at least tell me where you've been?" he inquired instead, not wanting to come out with his own suspicions.

"The Kitchens, for meals," she replied.

'_Huh. Well, that answers one question.'_

"…that's how you charmed the Weasley's food," Shinji concluded. "But how did you find the entrance in the first place?"

"Binns."

"Binns," Shinji repeated, thinking the name sounded famil..._wait._ "As in…the ghost who teaches History of Magic?"

"The same. All of the teachers know of the Kitchen's location," the purple-haired Ravenclaw informed the Boy from the East. "And for an apparition, he is most accommodating for those with an interest in history."

Shinji digested that for a moment, then nodded.

"…and for sleeping?" he followed up. "No one has seen you back at the Tower."

"That is because I have not been back. I have been using something called the Come and Go Room."

* * *

><p>Since the Halloween Feast had been canceled due to threat of Troll, with the students dismissed to their dormitories, the Ghosts of Hogwarts had decided to throw their own party. This year however, the party – resembling a Deathday Party – was in honor of Peeves, the Castle Poltergeist, of all unlikely fellows.<p>

For once, the poltergeist had done a glorious thing, after all, defeating an enemy of the school in open battle – something which they could all admire. Even the Bloody Baron, who usually grew exasperated by the rude spirit of disorder's antics – had raised a glass to his name.

But Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, known to most as Nearly Headless Nick, resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was not enjoying himself. It wasn't that he was jealous, of course.

Well, not jealous of Peeves, even though, if there was a party, it really should be in his honor, since it was his 499th Deathday – the 499th Anniversary of his death by near-beheading.

It probably didn't help that once _again, _Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, leader of the "Headless Hunt", had denied him admission to the elite group of beheaded ghosts for the 498th time.

And all for what? A centimeter of skin holding his head to his neck?

So really…he was jealous of the troll. Why? Well…

"_How and why in Merlin's name did even a bloody, blasted troll get beheaded more professionally than I was?!"_


	14. Rumors and Tongues

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14.<strong> _Rumors and Tongues_

For Harry Potter, being able to help defeat the troll which threatened his schoolmates, instead of just waiting like a damsel in distress or running away while others fought in his place had felt good. True, the others had all done more than he – the Weasley Twins and Hillard using their more advanced knowledge of charms and transfiguration, and his friend Shinji unleashing an overwhelming barrage of power that even the upperclassmen had been surprised at with arts that the Ravenclaw had only _begun_ to show him.

Now that he understood a little of how they worked, thanks to Shinji giving him a few _ofuda_ to base his own on, he had even more respect for his friend and how hard he worked. While many others – especially in Slytherin – were under the impression that the boy from the East could simply use non-verbal, wandless magic as a first year—and were quite intimidated (and curious, given that Pansy had asked about him a few times), the truth was somewhat different.

In learning how to make _ofuda_ of his own, he'd learned that the process was like _storing_ a spell, tying together power and purpose for later use – and that displays such as Shinji had used against the troll were only possible with hours – no – days or weeks – of preparation. He alone knew his friend's secret, and if anything, it had only bolstered his respect for the other boy, since it meant he didn't actually have overwhelming power (and couldn't just blow past everything with ease). Shinji Matou worked just as hard as he did every day – perhaps even harder – because his Craft demanded it, and with hard work came reward.

Harry had not been used to that, because working too hard in school while he was at the Dursleys – and God forbid, showing up Dudley – would have resulted in mutterings about "freaks", "freakishness", and unnatural advantages, often leading to him going to bed without anything to eat. He'd learned not to fail, either, since having a progress note sent home with him would lead to him being punished for being a burden and embarrassment to the family that had so kindly taken him in – usually resulting in him having an extra set of chores to do – and again, no food.

For years he'd had to avoid the Scylla and Charybdis of failure and excellence alike, and had learned the art of mediocrity.

But that had all changed one night – the night out on the island when he'd learned what really happened to his parents, when he had learned that he was the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World; that as the Boy-Who-Lived, he had somehow defeated Voldemort, a wizard so terrible and feared that people flinched at his name, calling him "You-Know-Who."

He'd seen it then – that _look_ in Hagrid's eye. The _look_ in Quirrell's eye, in the eyes of all the people at the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley. Even Snape questioning him – grilling him on the first day of class with what he later learned were advanced potions.

The expectations had changed. People didn't really see _Harry Potter_, the Boy-Who-Lived-In-A-Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs; they saw Harry Potter, the _Boy-Who-Lived_, and expected only the best.

He had beaten a Dark Wizard as a child, they'd said, so how could he be anything less than a legend.

Being sorted into Slytherin House – seeing the utter silence of nearly the entire Great Hall, when there'd been at least polite clapping for _everyone _else, had underscored that. The person they wanted wasn't Harry – it was the Boy-Who-Lived, and as he later learned, his Sorting had stunned them, as Slytherin House had apparently been where Volde—You-Know-Who had been, and they wondered why the person who had ended his reign of terror had gone to his very house.

And the House of Snakes had lived up to its slippery, slithery name – Slytherin – _Slithering, _as he sometimes thought of it.

There was the pale faced boy he'd met in Diagon Alley, Draco Malfoy, the one who had spoken briefly of the Houses and how he had hoped not to be in Hufflepuff. There were the mean, heavyset boys who followed him. There was a boy named Zabini who didn't associate with _anyone_. And there were the girls, some of which had helped orient him to what was expected of a Slytherin in return for his—the _Boy-Who-Lived's—_company, and those who aligned themselves with Malfoy, whose father was apparently a very important man in the Wizarding World.

The upper years mostly ignored them, not pranking them, but not helping them either – in the Snake Pit, the upper years cared not for those beneath them; they were nobody – might as well not even exist - until they made themselves somebody. Somebody to be feared, somebody to be respected, through power, wit, and skill.

Slowly, Harry had grown used to the idea that Hogwarts wasn't some world of fantasy, that going there hadn't really let him escape the problems of the real world. After all, it was just a school, albeit a school where people could use magic, with its rivalries, pettiness, rumors, and more.

…and where, as the Boy-Who-Lived, as the Wizarding World's Saviour, he was expected to know things, and his opinion _mattered._

…that was something he found most unsettling, with the support of his friend in Ravenclaw – the only person who had clapped for him when he'd been Sorted, who had said he was fine with whatever path Harry took, what he found reassurance in.

So when his friend had started showing him bits of the Eastern Arts, Harry had poured his effort into learning them with everything he had. These scraps of knowledge, things that would help him be set apart from the other Slytherins – to keep their respect – were like water placed before a man in a desert. It was difficult – it was unfamiliar – it wasn't natural to him, unlike how flying had seemed – but he learned it, nonetheless, even as it hurt him every time his friend was pranked – probably because of him.

…even as the nightmares came, more often now, of the night when he'd lost his parents, of them begging for him to be spared – and then that horrible green light.

He wondered sometimes if it might be the green and silver theme of Slytherin House that made him dream about this, but he couldn't do anything about that – so he'd worked himself into exhaustion in a vain attempt to not have to dream at all.

…all of which had led to him playing a part in defeating a troll in his first year, with the five who fought that day now part of an organization (the Stone Cutter Society) ostensibly led by the _Boy-Who-Lived _himself_. _Harry knew better, though, knew that in power and skill, he was perhaps the least of them, even if his name had more weight than all the others put together.

But he didn't care, as he was _one_ of them, having earned his place among them through what he'd done (fighting beside them) – not what he was _said_ to have done (defeating Voldemort). To _them_, he was Harry, a brave and skilled first year – but still a first year, even if to the outside world, he was the _Boy-Who-Lived_, the one from who everyone expected great and terrible things.

Even now, as he walked through the corridors to the Great Hall – as Professor Flitwick had mentioned in the wake of the Troll Incident, the Dueling Club, which had been disbanded several years ago, was going to be reinstated, with a meeting that evening for all interested students—he could hear others murmuring, whispering quietly that the _Boy-Who-Lived_ probably didn't need instruction in dueling.

After all, had he – and his band of followers – not killed a troll? Not just defeated it – but utterly destroyed it?

Rumors were flying already about what the five must be capable of, what secrets they held, what powers they commanded. For through action, they had distinguished themselves as _heroes_…even if, aside from the Boy-Who-Lived and maybe the Prefect, who had done his duty, it was agreed they were about the unlikeliest people imaginable.

* * *

><p>Coming to the Great Hall itself, Harry could see that it looked quite different from its usual appearance. The long dining tables - one for each house and one for the teachers – were gone, with a great golden stage against one long wall of the room, illuminated by thousands of candles floating overhead.<p>

The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

"Do you think it will be Flitwick who'll be teaching us?" Daphne Greengrass asked from beside him – she was usually there, if not Pansy – as they edged into the chattering crowd. "He did used to be a dueling champion when he was young."

"Could be," Harry said in a non-committal manner. "But it could also be Quirrell, since he does teach Defense against the Dark Arts."

"Not that you have much to learn after beating a troll, right, Potter?" the blonde asked, curious to see that the 'hero' would have to say. "Then again, after beating a Dark Lord as a baby, facing down a troll must have been a walk in the park."

Harry forced himself to chuckle. He hadn't thought it was a doddle to battle a troll, but then he knew that in Slytherin, his reputation was the most potent weapon he had against being pranked or teased.

"There's always something to learn, Greengrass," he replied with practiced ease. "After all, there's always someone better."

"Hm," Daphne murmured, not agreeing or disagreeing. "So you say, Potter. But there are plenty worse."

And that Harry certainly couldn't deny, so he'd only grunted, a sound that made the girl beside him laugh quietly. He had to admit that it wasn't an _unpleasant_ sound, and so he didn't really mind not knowing if she was laughing at – or with – him.

What little laughter there had been at the Dursley household had been at his expense. Hogwarts, if a more dangerous place in some respects, was also something of a happier one.

Their questions as to who would be leading this session were put to rest a few minutes later, as at exactly eight o'clock, Professors Flitwick and Quirrell arrived, one on either side of the Great Hall. Slowly, with the crowd parting to let them pass, they made their way to the stage, walking up onto the stage from opposite ends.

Quirrell, of course, wore his usual robes of black and plum (the better to match his turban), while the diminutive Charms Professor was clad in an outfit reminiscent of a Muggle coat and vest.

Both bowed to each other, and then to the students, before Flitwick addressed the assembled crowd.

"Greetings. Greetings, everyone!" the head of Ravenclaw House – and former Dueling Champion exclaimed, his hands spread to welcome the masses of students. "In the wake of the dreadful affair with the troll, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to reinstate the dueling club."

A ragged cheer went up from the students, and the part-goblin had to smile at the sight of so many people – almost all of the first through fourth years, with a scattering of some of the older students.

"It is my hope – and that of Professor Quirrell, our Defense against the Dark Arts professor, that through this club, you can learn skills to help you defend yourself, should you ever find yourself in an unfortunate situation such as the one faced by Misters Potter, Matou, Weasleys, and Hillard," the Professor squeaked, nodding to each of them in turn. "Those five certainly demonstrated remarkable creativity, a sound sense of strategy – and not a little luck – in bringing down a full-grown troll, but we feel that with training, you too can overcome what Professor Quirrell calls the greatest enemy a wizard can face – fear."

"Indeed, Professor Flitwick," Quirrell chimed in, eyes pausing on each of the Stone Cutters in turn, with Harry feeling a slightly uncomfortable burning sensation as the Defense Professor regarded him with an unreadable expression. "But remember this – no matter how much training you do, there is no wizard who does not tremble in the face of death." He paused then, to let his voice sink in. "The best trained wizards, however, are the ones who do not _freeze_, who are not _paralyzed_ by what could happen, and so can only watch as the end comes. They are the ones who dare, who fight, who…_live."_

The Great Hall was silent in the wake of his words. This wasn't the first time they'd heard the man express such sentiments, but it was one of his most vehement deliveries to date – and it struck a chord, in the wake of the incident with the troll.

"…thank you, Professor Quirrell," Flitwick said, nodding. "Now, before we begin, we thought it would be instructive to have a short demonstration of one can learn. Quirinus here once studied dueling under me, and since we can't simply find a troll on short notice, he has agreed to help me with a small demonstration."

It took a moment, but the students seemed to come to life at that announcement. Two professors dueling? The man who had made the study of charms his career – no, his life, and the man who had delved into the intricacies of defending against the Dark Arts.

This would be quite a show.

"Well then, given the circumstances, I suppose this would be a good a time as any to give my long promised…demonstration," the Defense Professor noted quietly, with some wondering what he was talking about – and then the buzzing redoubling as they remembered what he'd talked about on the first day of class.

Blocking spells – even the unforgivable – not with shields or conjured objects, but with other spells.

With that, Flitwick and Quirrell turned to face each other and bowed slightly, before raising their wands in front of them, their stances quite different. One had a stance that spoke of agility, being light on his feet, ready to move at a moment's notice; the other's stance spoke of strength and solidity, of power, of_ confidence_.

"Students, if you would count to three for us, please?" Flitwick squeaked out, with the gathered crowd beginning the count.

_One._

"So we meet again at last, Professor - the circle is now complete," the man who had once been a Ravenclaw said to the one who had been his Head of House. "When we last met wand to wand - I was but a learner; now I am a master."

_Two._

"A master you say? A bold claim, Quirinus," the former Dueling Champion noted with a half-smile, feeling the long-forgotten thrill of the stage flow through him once again. It had been a very long time since he'd had a good challenge, and he wondered if his former student would grant him what he sought.

_Three._

On the count of _three, _neither said anything further.

Both _moved, _with furious streams of spells shooting towards each other.

Flitwick – true to his stance – dodged most of the ones meant for him, mingled bolts of blue, red, and purple streaking for the defense professor.

But Quirrell had merely smiled, a rapid-fire volley of what looked like _Flipendos – _the Knockback Jinx – most basic of all offensive moves, darting from his wand to intercept each of the colored bolts coming for him, with miniature explosions erupting in midair as spell met spell.

"_Merlin!_" someone whispered in audience.

Taking advantage of the Defense Professor's shift in focus, Flitwick followed up with what looked like the bright red bolt of an _Expelliarmus, _only for the spell to be batted away by the silvery distortion of a Shield Charm, flying back towards the Charms Professor, who hastily raised his own Shield to counter.

That one spell was deflected back and forth for a few exchanges before Quirrell changed the angle of his shield, causing the bolt to hit the ground and fizzle out.

This momentary break in the action gave Flitwick the opportunity to conjure a small flock of pure white birds, which he sent at Quirrell like a hail of silver bullets, only for them to be transfigured into fresh cut roses, which fell, scattered, at his feet.

_Whizzes, _bangs, _BOOMs! _Echoed in the Great Hall as the two wizards battled, in a display of light, colors, and sounds that dazzled the audience. Flitwick, moving all about the stage, continually casting a nigh-ceaseless barrage of spell. Quirrell, who stood as if a mountain, not having moved from his spot since the beginning of the match, countering spell chains by intercepting some of the spells with other, simple spells.

He rarely used a shield, preferring a more aggressive form of defense that caused his opponent's spells to explode in mid-air.

But then, in a flash, the match ended – two sets of blue-white shields going up nearly at once – one around the stage, and one around Quirrell, as an errant spell-ray the Defense Professor had dismissed, as it would come nowhere close to hitting him, impacted one of the flowers at his feet, with it – then the next – then the next – erupting into a violent, orange-red explosion that deafened the room.

When the dust and smoke faded, Quirrell could be seen with his shields holding – and Flitwick's wand pointed right at him, ready for another powerful spell.

"It's over, Quirinus," the Charms Master said gruffly. "I have the high ground, so to speak. You're on the defensive."

"You underestimate my power, Filius," the Defense Professor retorted, though after a moment more, the shield flickered out, and he bowed to the part-goblin. "But you are indeed correct. You have me at…a disadvantage."

Flitwick followed suit, as the shield separating the stage from the students fell.

"Well fought, Quirinus," he said, with tones of praise and respect. "Such a defense as you employed is quite rare indeed, given the speed at which one would have to react." He was half talking to his fellow professor, and half to the gathered students, in case they tried it and hurt themselves.

"Indeed, which is why most rely on shields – or moving out of the way," Quirrell acknowledged. "But then sometimes the simple methods work best."

"Hm. You were always brilliant when it came to the theory, and quite adept at non-verbal spells, but the year of practical experience has done marvels for you in learning how to use your talent. Still, you never did learn to mind your surroundings."

"I will make a note of it, Filius."

With that, the two had saluted again, and went out into the crowds, pairing people off and quickly demonstrating how to do a proper disarming spell.

…Harry was somewhat dubious about how useful such a spell would be against a troll, given the sheer size of one meant its very body was a weapon – and the last time he'd seen it used, the club had almost smashed _him_ anyway, but he supposed one had to start somewhere.

Looking around, the Boy-Who-Lived saw his friend Shinji paired with a bushy-haired girl – Granger he thought the name was – Malfoy paired with Ron Weasley (to their mutual disgust), Pansy paired with Tracey, and Crabbe and Goyle with each other. The Weasley Twins had been asked to help, apparently, as had Hillard, as they were helping to explain to others how to perform the spell – and people listened, based on their fame.

"Well, it looks as if I'm at your tender mercies, Potter," Daphne noted, almost coyly as she turned to face him. "Don't let it get to your head, _Stone Cutter_."

"You shouldn't just presume like that, Greengrass," Harry replied, half-smiling at his maybe-friend. In Slytherin, one never really knew exactly how much friendship was feigned and how much was genuine – at least until push came to shove. "But don't worry, I cut trolls – not pretty girls."

Daphne blushed prettily at that, but got into the ready position, with Harry mirroring her a moment later.

"Wands at the ready!" squeaked Flitwick. "When I count to three, cast to disarm your opponents - only to disarm them, I say!"

They looked at each other, wands outstretched.

One.

Two.

_Three. _They cast…and Harry's wand went flying – into his partner's hand.

"Potter…are you going easy on me?" Daphne asked as she handed him his wand.

"…no," Harry grumbled, taking the wand gingerly. "Maybe you're just faster than me,"

"Well…that would be something. Let's try that again then," she said, with narrowed eyes.

One.

Two.

_Three._

This time, it was Daphne's wand that went flying, with the girl stumbling back several steps – but mostly because Harry had already been moving on the count of three.

"…how very Slytherin of you," Daphne commented as Harry handed her back her wand. "But not very gentlemanly. How exactly did you beat the troll again?"

"…trolls don't cast spells?" the Boy-Who-Lived asked weakly.

The two shared a _look_ and chuckled.

"Well, you have power," the other Slytherin admitted, "I'll grant you that. One more time then? And try not to be such a Slytherin this time."

One.

Two.

Three.

This time, both of them ended up disarmed, save for each other's wands.

"Hmm, and a fast learner too," Daphne commented, as the two traded wands. "You obviously didn't use this spell during the fight with the troll though. Makes me curious as to what you did."

That, unfortunately, was something of a secret – he'd promised Shinji that he wouldn't tell others about _ofuda_ without permission, just as Shinji kept his secrets. He'd done so twice, in fact, the first time just between them, the second, as part of the formation of the Stone Cutter Society.

"That…is a secret," Potter replied – really the only thing he could say for now, though it made Daphne look at him in a somewhat more…calculating fashion.

"Careful, Potter, you're starting to sound like a Dark Wizard," she said coolly, wanting to see how he reacted – an almost flinch, before brushing his scar. "But I guess the Boy-Who-Lived must have a few secrets."

Around them, the room had exploded into chaos, with Malfoy and Ron looking like they were rather worse for wear – one belching slugs and laughing on the floor uncontrollably, while the other had large black bats crawling out of his nostrils and flying in a cloud about in, and was dancing uncontrollably. Granger, on top of losing her wand, had nearly fallen over – and it was only the apparent quick thinking of her partner that kept her from hitting her head – though in their current position, it seemed as if the two had been doing some particularly intimate dance, with Shinji just having lowered her for a dip.

Crabbe and Goyle were unconscious after their spells had exploded, as were Longbottom and some Hufflepuff he didn't recognize.

"Finite Incantatem!" Flitwick spoke with authority, as all the strange effects vanished – the bats vanishing and slugs vanishing from Malfoy and Weasley, with the two regaining control of themselves. Granger, however, still seemed frozen in Shinji's arms, going beet red as she regained her feet and almost leapt backwards.

"It looks as if we will need someone to demonstrate how a Disarming charm should be performed," Professor Quirrell spoke up, his gaze flickering to survey every one of the students. "Otherwise, we might see more of these…accidents."

His tone was scathing, and several students paled.

"An excellent idea, Quirinus," Flitwick agreed, nodding.

"I thought you might agree, Filius," the Defense Professor said. He looked around, meeting Harry's eyes. "Mr. Potter, I noticed you and your partner displayed good technique with the Disarming Charm. Would you be willing to help us demonstrate its use?"

"Yes, Professor," he'd replied, which was about the only thing he could do, as he stepped forward.

"Now, who else would—"

"I would," a rather insufferable voice spoke up, with Draco Malfoy stepping forward, looking at Potter with visible disdain. "I volunteer, Professor."

"Well then, just remember that we are here to demonstrate the disarming curse, yes?"

Draco nodded, but the thin smile on his face made Harry think he was up to something.

"In that case, please take the stage," Flitwick squeaked, directing both of the boys towards the great, somewhat charred platform.

They did so, each watching the other as if thinking the other was about to pull some kind of underhanded trick.

"Face your partner and bow," Flitwick commanded, though Harry and Draco barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off of each other. "Wands at the ready. And—"

"_Serpensortia_!" Malfoy bellowed, as his wand seemed to _explode, _a long black snake – a King Cobra of all things, shooting out of it, falling heavily onto the floor between them as it raised itself, ready to strike.

It happened in an instant.

Enraged and hissing furiously at having been so unceremoniously conjured, it slithered straight towards Harry, its fangs exposed, poised to strike.

And Harry, out of reflex, shouted out: "Don't hurt me, please. Malfoy did it, not me!"

And miraculously - inexplicably – the snake seemed to slam to a halt as it looked at him.

'_As you wisssh, Sssspeaker,' _it said, dropping to the floor – and springing for the one who had summoned it as—

Malfoy _screamed_ in agony, collapsing to his hands and knees as the snake's needle-like fangs sank deep into his arm. He scrabbled away from Harry, looking at the Boy-Who-Lived with utter terror in his eyes – the terror of those who know they are about to die – that they have angered something they could not hope to match.

Quirrell stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. He glanced at Harry briefly in an unexpected way – with a knowing smile, the sight of which chilled Harry to the bone.

"Filius, I'll get Malfoy to the Hospital Wing," the Defense Professor barked out, his expression concerned and shocked to all appearances as he quickly cast a stunning spell on the blond and proceeded to levitate the body. "You handle the others."

No small task, as most of the Hall was now looking at Harry in fear – and some, especially the Slytherins, with a sort of reverence. For his part, he didn't know what had just happened, only that—

"Mr. Potter, stay behind a moment, please," Professor Flitwick said quietly, though Harry noticed that he was holding his wand in the ready position. "The rest of you may go – I believe that is enough excitement for one evening."

Hearing they were dismissed, many began to stream out of the Great Hall – Ron Weasley throwing him a particularly hateful look, and Parkinson and Daphne both giving him supporting ones, except for four others.

"Stone Cutters, assemble!" the voice of Robert Hillard barked out, the crowd freezing in place as the Weasley twins and the boy from the east made their way over to Harry, drawing away from them as if they were frightened of catching something. They walked up to Harry and Filtwick and then turned to the crowd, serving as a human bulwark to keep their comrade from prying eyes as the Hall emptied.

"Now, Mr. Potter, would you mind explaining to me what just happened?" the part-goblin asked, not unkindly, as he lowered his wand. "Don't worry – you're not in trouble. I just want to get to the bottom of this."

"Malfoy conjured a snake," Harry said, the fear of the moment still fresh. "I…I asked it not to attack me."

Flitwick looked piercingly at Harry then, as if his eyes could see right through the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Did you say anything else?"

"Professor?" Harry asked, confused. "Weren't you right there? You heard what I said, right?"

"Mr. Potter," Flitwick began, his gaze softening. "I heard you, but I could not understand a word you said. You see, you were speaking in Parseltongue, the language of snakes."

Harry gaped.

"I spoke a different language? But - I didn't realize - how can I speak a language without knowing I can speak it? I mean, I've only spoken to a snake once before, when I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo on…ce…"

He trailed off then, swallowing as he realized just what he said. Perhaps not the wisest thing he could have, given the circumstances.

"In the wizarding world," Flitwick said after a long moment, "being a Parselmouth – talking to snakes – is a rare gift. It is, in fact, what Salazar Slytherin was famous for – and is the very reason why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent. I am sorry to say this, but with a student hurt, this is out of my hands – the headmaster will want to see you, Mr. Potter. Now, if possible."

Harry nodded, though he did ask, "Can one of my friends come with me?"

"Well…under the circumstances," Flitwick murmured, looking at the Stone Cutters, "one will be acceptable. Prefect Hillard, if you don't mind?"

"Not at all, Professor. Harry, is that alright with you?"

Harry nodded, and with that, he and Hillard were escorted to the Headmaster's Office.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore had already been less than pleased to hear about the involvement of the Boy-Who-Lived in the defeat of the troll, much less the creation of the so-called Stone Cutter Society, especially as Harry Potter had somehow become the head of it, as opposed to one of the older students. While the headmaster would normally have been reassured by the presence of the Weasley Twins, who though mischievous were never truly cruel, he wondered at the involvement of two members of Ravenclaw House in this new organization – including one he was already suspicious of, as it was <em>unusual<em> for older students to defer to someone younger.

The charter of the organization, which mentioned that only those vetted and approved by the group of five could join, and that applicants needed to have something to contribute, further concerned him, given the gifts of those already part of it.

The troll's - the late troll's – condition had been proof enough of their talent, as this motley group of students had not only managed to subdue a troll, but had utterly defeated it in battle, leaving its body a smoking ruin, and its head – well, Dumbledore assumed it had been disintegrated, as it was simply gone.

The power it would take to do _that _to a troll – no student should not be capable of such firepower. No group of five students should be capable of such, not when two were first years, two were third years, and the oldest was a fifth year.

But defeat it they had, with Prefect Hillard of Ravenclaw House mentioning that Shinji Matou and Harry Potter, the two first years involved, had played a decisive part in defeating the troll. Given what he'd witnessed from the Weasleys Twins, he wagered that the transfiguration of stone to swamp that had stopped the troll in its tracks had been their doing, and he was aware of Hillard's record as part of the last iteration of the Dueling club…but what part had the others played?

As far as he could tell, the only other role this left the other two was supplying the raw power needed to get past the troll's resistance to magic – and kill it. Now, Dumbledore had seen in his time how strong emotion was capable of powering spells beyond their usual limits, but to the extent that a troll should have been decapitated by spells alone?

That…should not be possible.

And as much as he worried about the corrupting influence of the Matou boy, he didn't think the boy had such power – else he would have likely not fallen victim to a prank. Which left one suspect, really, Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, leader of the Stone Cutter Society, and now apparently…Parselmouth.

Indeed, Professor Flitwick was now explaining the incident that had occurred at the first meeting of the new Dueling Club, resulting in Draco Malfoy having been bitten by an extremely venomous snake that he had apparently conjured in an attempt to intimidate the Boy-Who-Lived. During the incident, Harry Potter had spoken to the snake in Parseltongue, resulting in the snake turning on its summonner before anyone thought to vanish it.

Malfoy was now resting in the infirmary, and was in stable condition after the administration of a bezoar.

"Thank you, Filius," Dumbledore said gravely. "I appreciate you bringing this to my attention so quickly."

…before Lucius Malfoy could make political hay out of the situation, as the man invariably would. But then, that was par for the course with Lucius, who fancied himself a counterweight to Dumbledore, and of all the former Death Eaters, held the most current influence.

At least this time, there was a chance to pre-empt the worst of it.

"Harry, my boy, it is good to see you – though I had hoped we would meet under better circumstances," the Headmaster greeted, aiming to seem pleasant and non-offensive. With the circumstances such that they were, the last thing he could afford was to alienate the Boy-Who-Lived or put him on the defensive.

Everything he was seeing, everything that had happened seemed to point to an unpleasant conclusion – that the Boy-Who-Lived was more like Tom Riddle than he had imagined. And yet, perhaps there was still a way to turn him from that path.

Potter had enough bad influences around him as it was. Clearly what he needed was a father figure, someone the poor boy could look towards for approval, instead of seeking all of it from his peers. Not that Dumbledore was great with children, but he liked to believe he made an effort.

…despite everyone warning him that things like hiding the Philosopher's Stone in Hogwarts were a bad idea. Clearly, if Voldemort truly had returned, then was it for the greater good that he be brought here, into the place where Dumbledore held power? And if a student died, well, better one death here, however terrible it was, then ten, a hundred, a thousand outside.

He'd accept those sins, would accept responsibility for their lives, would grieve if and when he needed, knowing it was still more than Riddle would do for the lives he took, knowing that in the end, he was doing what was right.

"Professor," Harry said politely. This was something like being called up to the principal's office, only worse – someone had actually gotten hurt this time, because he'd been careless.

Dumbledore looked into the boy's eyes, using legilimency to do a subtle probe of the boy's mind, but most importantly, checking to see if the boy had any training as an Occlumens. What he found was promising in that there were no obvious signs of Occlumency training, though the Headmaster was conceded that if the Boy-Who-Lived was an advanced Occlumens, like Severus Snape, then the use of that art would not be obvious.

Still, his mind seemed raw, troubled, messy – and for the moment, he was willing to accept his impression as truth. It would be nothing short of extraordinary – and extraordinarily disturbing – if a first year student had become a master occlumens, after all.

"Take heart, my boy – I trust Professor Flitwick has been accurate in his account and that you have nothing to fear," the Headmaster continued. "However, given the very public nature of this incident, and the fact that someone was hurt, we will need a statement taken under veritaserum."

"Veritaserum, sir?"

"What the muggles would call a truth serum, Harry," Dumbledore explained. "I fear Lucius Malfoy will wish to press a case against before the Wizengamot, our highest court. I seek to protect you from this, if you will agree to its use, Harry."

"I…" the Boy-Who-Lived hesitated. As much as he wanted to believe the Headmaster, Shinji had told him about how the old man had all but threatened him just for defending himself against a would-be killer, so he wasn't sure if he should trust the man. Still… "Professor Flitwick, what do you suggest?"

The Charms Master had always been fair, in Harry's opinion, and had listened before he judged on the night of the Troll Incident. So he was willing to trust Flitwick's judgment, as opposed to someone didn't know well, and might not have his best interests at heart.

"…while I would normally be opposed to the use of Veritaserum on students, in this case, it may be a good idea," the part-goblin conceded. He wanted to make sure he was doing every he could to protect his students, after all, and on the chance Harry was lying about what he had said in Parseltongue, he wanted to be sure.

Harry looked at Hillard, who just nodded.

"…if you say so, Professor," Harry said, acquiescing to the man's request. "What do I have to do?"

It turned out that all he had to do was sit down, take a drink of pumpkin juice – into which three drops of a clear, tasteless potion had been added, and answer some questions about the duel. What had happened leading up to it, the match itself, what he had felt and what he had said: _"Don't hurt me, please. Malfoy did it, not me!"_

"And you didn't have any intention to set the snake on Mr. Malfoy?"

"No, sir. I just wanted it not to hurt me."

"No further questions then," Dumbledore said, his expression unreadable. "I think we have enough – I will supply the memory of this incident myself, as well as the written transcript. Filius, you will be witness to this."

"Yes, Albus."

"In that case, you may go, Harry. Prefect Hillard, please escort him back to his dormitory."

* * *

><p>But it wasn't to the Slytherin Dungeons that Robert and Harry went, but to the Kitchens, where the rest of the Stone Cutter Society waited, along with – another Ravenclaw. Sokaris, he thought the name was – the purple-haired girl who sometimes worked with Daphne or Shinji in Herbology. He hadn't known she had access to the kitchens.<p>

"We didn't tell her—"

"—she was here when we came in, mate," the twins spoke in answer to his unasked question.

"In fact, this was how she turned our food into worms—"

"—wasn't it?"

"It would have been unwise to not to seize the tactical advantage," Sokaris conceded, the corners of her lips curling up ever so slightly. "I do not enjoy being pranked, but I am capable of holding my own." Then she turned to Harry and Robert. "Greetings, Prefect Hillard, and Descendant of Slytherin, Harry Potter."

Harry's eyes widened at the term.

"What do you mean 'Descendant of Slytherin'?" he asked.

"The ability to speak Parseltongue is both uncommon and usually hereditary, with most speakers descended from the line of Salazar Slytherin," the purple-haired girl answered, her eyes seeming to weigh him and find him acceptable. "Given that you were sorted into Slytherin and can speak Parseltongue, the logical conclusion is that you are his Descendant."

"That's—"

"—wicked—"

"—in a good way, Harry," the twins reassured him.

Was that why the Slytherins had looked at him so…reverently? As if it wasn't enough being the Boy-Who-Lived, now he was going to be looked at as a direct descendant of the Founder as well? But then why had everyone feared…well, aside from Malfoy being bitten by his own serpent?

"Unfortunately, speaking Parseltongue has sometimes been associated with being a Dark Wizard," Hillard said, sighing as he sat down at one of the tables, with a plate of what seemed like a waffle – but what Shinji called okonomiyaki – appearing before him, a savory dish made of a mix of pork scraps and cornmeal, topped with charred cabbage, pickled apples and maple bacon & kewpie mayonnaise. "But then, most people aren't Ravenclaws, and thus don't think logically. After all, no Dark Wizard I know would have risked his neck to help us against a troll."

"He knew," Harry interjected, frowning despite Hillard's reassurance. "After what happened…the way Quirrell looked at me – it's as if he already knew I was a Parselmouth, somehow."

"Do you think he set you up for this?" Shinji asked, not at all happy with the implications of that. If the Defense Professor was actively working against them, then… "After all, Sokaris did see him let the troll into the castle."

Jaws gaped. Eyes bulged. And heads swiveled to look at the purple-haired girl, who was picking away at her own late meal.

"Quirrell did what—?!"

"And when were—"

"—you going to tell us this, wee little Matou?"

"Why would he…?" Harry asked, only for Hillard to provide the explanation.

"…the Forbidden Corridor," the prefect said grimly, looking over at Sokaris. "It was a distraction, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, although I do not know what is hidden there," Sokaris replied. "I followed him there, but there is a limit to what I can find without help."

"…and that's why you're here, isn't it? As opposed to not being here when we have been."

"Naturally," the dusky-skinned Ravenclaw acknowledged readily.

"Sokaris, if you don't mind my asking, what's your interest in this?" Hillard asked, curious as to why she had gone after the Professor on her own.

"I do not like those who would take what does not belong to them," she said simply. "And while I dislike…pranks, they are nowhere near the threat a trained practitioner of the Dark Arts could cause."

"But…" Harry felt he had to say. "He's the Defense Professor, not a Dark Wizard."

"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster," Sokaris recited, quoting an old philosopher who had once said God was dead. "And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you. Simply put, those who learn how best to fight the Dark Arts are often the ones tempted most by the Dark Arts' power."

"The muggle Nietzsche, was it?"

"Indeed."

"Well," Hillard noted. "I doubt we'll be welcome at future Dueling Club meetings, if the club is allowed to continue after what happened. We'll just have to practice ourselves. Potter, I'll walk you back to the Dungeons, if you want to talk. Matou, head back without me, please."

* * *

><p>When Shinji finally reappeared in Ravenclaw Tower that night via house-elf apparition, Hermione was about ready to go off on them for their obvious support of a Parselmouth. Already, she was aghast at each of the mischief makers – the "Stone Cutter Society", to use their new and lofty name - getting 20 points apiece for their Houses, for it sent <em>entirely<em> the wrong message to all involved to _reward_ those that had caused so much inconvenience for everyone.

Even if the Boy-Who-Lived was part of the group, he should not get such…such…favoritism! And now she had seen one of his hidden powers – that he was a Parselmouth – and had seen him command a snake to attack Malfoy.

…to crush his one rival in Slytherin House and cement his power. True, she had heard only the hissing of Parseltongue, and could not understand what he had said, but from the way the snake had stopped mid-lunge, only to spring for Malfoy, it seemed obvious what Potter had said.

Already rumors were spreading that Potter was You-Know-Who come back to life – or _worse_ – that the reason You-Know-Who had gone after him was that he knew the Boy-Who-Lived would become a threat to his life one day, a practitioner of darkness whose power would eclipse his own.

It…it just wouldn't do for good Ravenclaws to hang around someone like that. They could lose points, be thought of as Dark in their own right, be _expelled_ for any misadventures.

…though given what Matou had done to Filch and her fellow Ravenclaw's open disdain for Malfoy, she wasn't sure which was worse.

"Where have you—" she began, only to stop, as Sokaris appeared next to the boy from the east.

Hermione swallowed, not having expected that her sometimes friend, sometimes rival would be there as well.

"Good evening, Hermione Granger," the purple-haired girl greeted solemnly.

"Sokaris," the brown-haired girl managed. "What are you doing with…him?"

"Conversing with the Boy-Who-Lived," the other replied, causing her to fix a baleful stare at Matou.

"You! You're corrupting her!" she accused, only for the Boy from the East to smile crookedly. "And after all your pranking drove her out of Ravenclaw Tower, made her feel unwelcome, you had to do this too?!"

To be fair, she wasn't entirely rational about the point – in a very real sense, Sokaris was one of the first people besides her parents who had ever approved of her, had been someone she thought she could call a friend. And the thought that now she was turning away, toward someone else…

It made her more than a bit jealous, though she didn't want to admit it.

"I can't speak for feeling welcome or not, since she doesn't sleep in the dorms, but she's no innocent," Shinji said, glancing over at Sokaris. "She was the one who pranked the Weasley Twins' food, after all."

Hermione froze.

She had done…_what?!_

"Sokaris…is…is this true?!" Hermione all but demanded, hoping it was a lie. But the other met her gaze, and simply nodded.

"It is."

It was true she had wondered what the other girl was doing, during that time, but Hermione had just assumed Sokaris was serious and studious as always. Even in the best of times, she was usually reclusive, and didn't tend to stay in the girls' dorm, something Hermione had thought to be a cultural issue. Still, the purple-haired girl had usually made herself available for help if necessary – and had proven to be a font of knowledge in potions, pointing out the faults in several recipes, based on inconsistency with the underlying theories.

Frankly, that intimidated her – though Hermione admitted she felt some guilty pleasure at outperforming both the foreign students – who clearly had some previous magical background – in Transfiguration. In _that _class, she was often the first one to master a spell or transformation, with the others lagging behind.

There may or may not also have been a bit of misplaced amusement when her attempt to put out a burning Shinji had led to that…rather tasteless song getting sung, but she was getting sidetracked.

With the events of the Prank War, Sokaris had been available less and less, until she had come back to the Tower on the day of the Troll Incident. Since there had been no pranks afterwards, Hermione had thought that it would all be over, that Sokaris would spend more time with her again, but…

…how had it come to this?

"Why? Why did you do it?" the brunette asked, almost desperate. She could feel what she thought was friendship slipping away. "Why did you spend time with…_them?_"

"I held my peace after the first incident," Sokaris answered evenly. "However, the occurrence of a second suggested that continued inaction would be seen as weakness."

"…but the _rules."_

"The rules are one thing, Hermione Granger," the purple-haired girl acknowledged, her expression unreadable. "But dignity is another."

"And what about Potter? How can you seek out him and his friends after what he did in the Great Hall?" Hermione almost snarled. She didn't like to fight, but she felt…_betrayed_.

"Unlike you, I did not attend the Dueling Club meeting," Sokaris replied, as if what had happened didn't really matter to her. "Thus I was unaware of his alleged crime until members of the Stone Cutter Society accosted me in the kitchens."

"I…I…_why?"_

But Sokaris did not answer, instead grunting as if in pain, her breathing going erratic for a moment, as she staggered over to the wall where the study room corridor was hidden, tapped the pattern, and disappeared.

"Good night, Hermione Granger," was all she said, leaving a very upset Hermione alone with Shinji.

"You!" the bushy brunette cried out as she almost hurled herself at the boy from the east, grabbing a fistful of his robes. "Why?" she asked, as she shook him, looking him in the eye. "Tell me!"

If Shinji had no experience with comforting people in general, he was pretty sure he'd never had to comfort a crying girl. His _sister_ might technically have been female, but she showed almost no emotion – in many respects, she was a doll that had replaced him.

Still…he thought he might recognize the feelings going through Granger now, as they mirrored those that had gone through him when he found that that…_girl_ had been adopted not for pity, but as his replacement.

In a rare moment of insight he realized that that was this girl's fear – to be tossed aside, to be replaced. Sokaris might have been – probably was – the closest person to her, and she was afraid.

"Granger," he said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder, only for her to slap it away. "Granger, please," he said again.

"_Why?!_"she demanded, as she punched his chest with her now free hand. "_Why did she choose you?!_"

Another punch, another, another.

Soon, both her fists were beating against his chest as the rules-loving brunette broke down in front of the very last person she wanted to see. The person who confused her so much – who was so arrogant sometimes – but so gentle – who bothered her.

Shinji said nothing though, knowing the worst was to come.

And indeed, soon came the first indrawn sob as she slumped, the fierce rhythm of her fists slowing as she began to weep.

It was all Shinji could do to gingerly wrap an arm around her to keep her from falling, maneuvering them to one of the couches as she cried into his chest, beating weakly at him, asking "_Why?!_ _Why? Why?_"

Through it all, Shinji held her silently, feeling how frail she was in his arms, how she shook and trembled as a storm of emotions seethed within her. When he'd first met Granger, he hadn't expected he'd have to do this – but then he hadn't expected her to become so upset – and hadn't thought she was so dependent on Sokaris.

'_Replaced, huh?'_

He'd never thought he and Granger were anything alike – an idea that sat strange with him, as she cried out her rage, her frustration, her grief, until she fell asleep, whereupon Shinji wrestled her body up onto the couch, with her head resting on his lap.

To his credit, when Hillard finally came back to Ravenclaw Tower that night and found the two, he said nothing, simply bringing down a blanket to cover them up, before leaving in silence. There would be a time and a place to talk, but that time was not now.


	15. Secrets

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15.<strong> _Secrets_

The general clime around Hogwarts grew cold after the events that had transpired at the first meeting of the reinstated Dueling Club. And no, it wasn't simply that the temperature had dropped, though the mountains had indeed become icy grey, with the lake beginning to freeze over and the ground covered in frost. The students too had grown colder and more suspicious after the revelation that the Boy-Who-Lived was in fact a Parselmouth – and thus the apparent Heir to Salazar Slytherin. A Dark Wizard in the making, rumors said, with the potential to be worse than even You-Know-Who at his most savage and cruel. The rumors of what had happened with the troll on Halloween night fed into this, with some now believing that it Harry Potter had staged the incident – that he had used his dark powers to release the beast into the castle, trading its life for…followers.

After all, it was well known that serpents – and the tongue of serpents – was involved in some of the cruelest of all magics, and if Potter's immediate reaction (in front of the assembled students of Hogwarts, no less!) to having someone defy him was to order the snake to kill his enemy, only to be stopped by the quick thinking of the Defense Professor – who knew what he was capable of when no one was watching?

So went the argument from some of the younger Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs – chief among them Ron Weasley and Ernie Macmillan, and such was why few of them even associated with him. Not that this was a significant change, mind you, but now many refused even to look at him, moving out of the way when he passed, skirting around him in the corridors, with conversations going silent the moment he entered a room. Even the fact that the Weasley Twins were his allies, and that no one wanted to be on the receiving end of their ire, hadn't stifled the rumors. After all, they were inveterate troublemakers to begin with, who _had _cost Gryffindor points on many an occasion, _and_ while they might be good people – who said the same was true of the Boy-Who-Lived?

The reaction of the Slytherins to this information was about the opposite, for they were a group who valued power and ruthlessness, and someone who was able to display both without receiving any consequences was someone to follow. More to the point, someone who had begun building a power base, with older, more experienced – and in some cases, intimidating – individuals joining him, was not to be trifled with. Thus, most in the House of Snakes had begun to defer to the Boy-Who-Lived, to grant whatever requests he made of them, to try and stick closely to him and gain his favor, especially Pansy Parkinson, who was almost always by his side during classes, in the halls, or in the Common Room.

Some of the Slytherins were less than happy that Parkinson had so publicly staked her claim to the Boy-Who-Lived. Indeed, there were rumors that she and Greengrass had dueled over an insult the former had made – or at least comment about how Greengrass alone couldn't satisfy the Heir of Slytherin.

And Ravenclaw – well, opinions were divided among those in the House of Knowledge. No one spoke openly against Potter, given that one of their Prefects was aligned with him, but neither did any openly support him, save Matou and Hillard, the two Stone Cutters of the House. Ravenclaw being what it was, popular support or opposition wouldn't have concerned its members much – they were a House that sought their own answers, as opposed to just buying into popular trends.

Sokaris was respected by many in Ravenclaw for that very reason – that she was both intelligent and detached from the world around her, being utterly apathetic to the factionalism of Hogwarts. Indeed, the fact that both she and Matou had been granted private study rooms early in the year had piqued the interest of a number of students, as access to those was traditionally only given to students working on major independent projects, usually for electives such as Alchemy.

Hermione Granger, on the other hand, while respected for her love of books and her classroom performance, was seen as being too involved – too much of an activist. She always seemed to want to help someone or to show someone the right path, mostly because that was what she knew – that was what her intelligence had been accepted for during her time among the Muggles. Which was why her silence was something of a surprise – with her love of authority and her rivalry with the Matou boy, most in Ravenclaw expected her to speak out against Potter and the Stone Cutter Society.

Instead, while she was quick to point out that there was nothing proper about rule-breaking behavior, she also mentioned that people should be given the benefit of the doubt.

Now, a good part of this could be attributed to finding out that Sokaris herself – the one person she thought would never stoop to such a thing - had engaged in pranking, and besides that, had been associating with the Stone Cutters. The rest though, that could be traced back to the rest of what happened the night after the Potter Revelation, as some were calling it.

To the fact that she'd cried into Shinji's chest and exhausted, had fallen asleep with her head cradled on his lap.

In truth, Hermione Granger was ashamed to have shown how weak she was, to have cried in front of anyone, much less Matou. The fact that she'd woken up in the morning, with her head cradled on his lap was even more humiliating, making her cheeks burn every time she thought of it.

And he'd said not a single word to tease her, not a single thing to hurt her when she was at her lowest, her most vulnerable, had just held her gently in a way she couldn't remember anyone except her parents doing when she was small.

She'd woken up before he did, and was surprised how peaceful he looked when he was asleep. More though, she was surprised that he hadn't just taken the opportunity to slip away into the study room where he spent his nights.

He was selfish, she knew. Concerned only for his image and reputation. Though himself above most of Ravenclaw.

...so why hadn't he just left her alone? Why had he been so…_nice_…to her? Why had he slept—well, spent the night with her?

It wasn't as if she liked him or anything. She'd just…wanted to know why of all people, he would have done such a thing. Why Sokaris would have chosen to spend time with…_him_ and _Potter_.

…why they didn't fit into neat little boxes of "good people" and "bad."

…why none of them made _sense_.

She'd always been taught that rulebreakers were "bad", that the proper course of action was to just tell the teachers and follow the rules – that rules were there for a reason. And until the prank war, nothing she'd experienced at Hogwarts had given her reason to suspect otherwise. Sure, she wasn't the most popular person, but at least in Ravenclaw, the house that valued learning and wisdom, she'd thought she was among peers.

And it was true that here she'd faced competition – and that no one had really needed her help to study, which in some ways she missed, because now she didn't feel helpful. Her talent for transfiguration aside, she wasn't…special. Not in the same way Sokaris was special, as a possible metamorphmagus and foreign student. Not in the same way Matou was special, with his wandless, non-verbal magic.

The first had been her closest friend here, where everyone else was just an acquaintance. Someone who spent time with her without asking what she could do for them…until she disappeared from the Tower without warning during the prank wars, reappearing briefly only to vanish again.

Why? Why had she done it?

She didn't understand, and when she woke up, she'd been too embarrassed to ask, so she had just left while he was still sleeping. And afterwards…well, he hadn't brought it up, though he did treat her just a bit more kindly.

Honestly – the boy from the East confused her, now more than ever. That was why she was spending time with him in the library while the rest of the school was out watching that ridiculous Quidditch game, helping him with some research for Sokaris.

It wasn't because she just wanted to feel useful to _someone_, she told herself. Nor because she enjoyed Matou's company or anything. It wouldn't do if someone got the wrong idea.

No, it was because the problem posed by Matou Shinji was an interesting one.

…by which she meant the problem he had asked for her help on, not the boy himself. He had come to her later in the week, asking if she knew of any connections between Hogwarts, its Headmaster and Alchemy. When asked why he wanted to know, Shinji had simply replied that it had to do with the corridor on the Third Floor, an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face.

She'd started off with _Hogwarts: A History_, of course, only to find nothing – save for the fact that Alchemy was apparently offered as a sixth and seventh year elective, and that somewhere in the school existed a Chamber of Secrets. _Important Modern Magical Discoveries, _and_ A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry_ likewise failed to reveal anything about alchemical discoveries, though she did learn that Albus Dumbledore was widely credited with discovering the 12 uses of Dragon Blood (a claim contested by Ivor Dillonsby, who claimed to have discovered 8 of the 12 and Dumbledore had stolen his work and used his influence over the Wizarding World to publish first).

Not that initial success was expected – the sheer size of the library suggested otherwise, given the thousands of shelves on hundreds of narrow rows containing tens of thousands of books.

"Perhaps we should look into Alchemy instead?" Shinji asked dryly, holding out an enormous, dusty tome with the title of _Alchemy: Ancient Art and Science_ by the improbably named Argo Pyrites.

He placed the book in front of them and opened it, with the title page identifying Mr. Pyrites as having been a researcher at the Centre for Alchemical Studies in Egypt, the premier institute for Alchemy in the Wizarding World.

They went through such terms as _albedo, nigredo, citrinitas, _and _rubedo, _introduced in the first chapter describing the great work of Alchemy, as well as its purpose: the creation of the Philosopher's Stone – a legendary substance with astonishing powers.

"…the Philosopher's Stone," Hermione repeated reverently. "The legendary artifact that can turn anything into gold? Wizards…can make that?"

Yes, she'd learned that magic was real – but magic and alchemy were two different things. After all, alchemy lay at the foundation of chemistry, with alchemy lending its name to chemistry later on, though certain of its practices had always been suspect.

Thus, when she'd learned that magic was real - she'd never made the connection that Alchemy was real – and that the Philosophers' Stone was not just a myth. After all, in some ways, its powers transcended mere magic.

"Well, we need to read more, but apparently practitioners of witchcraft think it creates an elixir of life too," Shinji noted, his eyes looking sharply at the page. "Granting immortality and curing all illness."

A powerful artifact indeed, though not one of raw power in and of itself according to the book.

What it could enable though, had startling implications, given how perilous the quest for immortality was for magi in the here and now. Currently, those who sought eternal life had few options, all of which usually boiled down to either becoming a Dead Apostle or something else inhuman.

Still…there was no indication one existed, as they read on, past chapters on Zosimos of Panopolis, Hermes Trimegistus, Geber and the principles of transmutation, until finally they came to…

"Nicolas Flamel," Hermione read quietly, as this was after all, the library. "The Immortal Alchemist – the owner of the only known Philosopher's Stone. Though Muggle accounts claim that Flamel was a mere manuscript reseller who came into possession of a mysterious tome from Egypt in which was contained the recipe for the Philosopher's Stone, Flamel was in truth an accomplished Wizard. In his youth, Nicolas was a pupil of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and later funded both the castle and the grounds of Beauxbatons. His creation of the Stone marks him as the greatest of alchemists. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)."

"And this book is an old one – he may be even older now," Shinji commented, taking notes on both this Alchemist – and the Muggle rumors that he had acquired a tome from Egypt. "Still, no note of a connection to Hogwarts yet."

"…well, we'll, just have to keep looking, right?" Hermione asked, moving to close the book – but squeaking and pulling back as their fingers touched. "Sorry."

"No, my fault," Shinji admitted, going back to shelf the book. "And yes. I have a hunch, but a hunch isn't good enough."

So the Philosopher's Stone _did_ exist. But what was the connection to Hogwarts or Dumbledore? And what did these papers from Egypt have to do with it?

That, Shinji wanted – no, needed – to know.

But at least now there was a place to look.

"An immortal Alchemist – I wonder if he's connected with any of the more recent Headmasters or Professors."

"Well, only one way to find out."

* * *

><p>Ironically, another member of the Stone Cutter Society would discover that piece of the puzzle – the Flamel-Dumbledore connection—by accident, though initially would have no inkling of what the man had made. For Harry Potter had chosen not to attend the first Quidditch match of the season – the match pitting Gryffindor against Slytherin, and had chosen instead to have tea with Hagrid.<p>

The whole "Descendent of Slytherin" business was beginning to get to him, with the unwanted attention from his own House and the suspicion and ire of several others. At least the professors hadn't said anything about it, and the Ravenclaws for the most part acted like it hadn't happened – something for which he was grateful, as he didn't think he'd done anything to deserve the wariness, fear, or respect he'd been shown after the snake bit Malfoy.

Even Malfoy himself had later begged forgiveness for his slights against the Boy-Who-Lives – something which might have otherwise pleased him, save for the fact that it was rooted in fear.

As if he was a monster to be placated.

A monster like Voldemort.

It made him kind of sick to think people were thinking of him in the same manner as the Dark Wizard who had destroyed so many lives, which was one reason he'd chosen not to attend the Quidditch game, since everyone would be there.

And worse, since it was Gryffindor vs Slytherin, with Fred and George Weasley – friends of a sort – on one team, and his House fielding the other, he didn't want to cheer against either one. He didn't want to cheer against his friends, but also knew that cheering for them was something of a no-no, given that Slytherins were supposed to appear united at all times – something which even Malfoy had at least somewhat followed in the beginning.

So instead, he'd feigned illness, choosing not to attend the Quidditch match or breakfast before it, letting Pansy and Daphne know that they really should go and that he'd be right as rain soon enough. And then when everyone had left, he had simply gone to visit Hagrid, the half-giant groundskeeper of Hogwarts who had introduced him to the world of magic.

He felt a bit guilty, since he hadn't had the chance to really visit the man before, but in between everything else, he didn't really have time. The pressure of school – and learning to excel for the first time – the incident with the troll, and now all of this mess, had kept him focused on his life inside the school.

As it turned out, Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, with a sizable crossbow and a pair of galoshes to the side of the door. Harry knocked, hearing a frantic scrabbling from inside and several booming barks, with Hagrid's voice calling out, "Back, Fang—back now."

The half-giant's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an enormous black boarhound. On top of his usual garb, he had a large pair of binoculars around his neck – had he been trying to watch the game from here?

"Harry – what yeh doing here?" the man asked gruffly. "Quidditch game is today. Gryffindor and Slytherin too – about the only time I enjoy the antics of the Weasley Twins. Usually have to chase em away from the forest, I do."

"…I just…wanted to visit," Harry replied weakly. He didn't know what to do – would he be unwelcome here too, because of Quidditch? He just hadn't felt comfortable coming out here when everyone was watching him before, given Malfoy's sentiments about the gameskeeper being a kind of savage – which he assumed some of the others shared.

"Eh, come in then," Hagrid grunted, waving Harry inside his humble abode. A small, but homey place, with hams and pheasants hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle boiling on the open fire, and a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it in the corner. "Make yerself at home."

As he said this, the half-giant let go of the boarhound - Fang, apparently - who bounded straight for Harry and licked his nose. Like Hagrid, Fang was apparently not as fierce as he looked – though the same couldn't be said for the three-headed dog on the third floor corridor, from what his friends had said.

Harry looked on as Hagrid poured boiling water into a large teapot and put some rather lumpy cakes onto a place - shapeless lumps with raisins that resembled nothing so much as a rock.

They talked for a while about a number of things, from how Hogwarts was going for Harry to the recent tragedy to befall Argus Filch ("the old git", according to Hagrid), with the man nearly being burnt alive.

"Yeh'd best be careful around that foreign boy," Hagrid warned, shaking his head. "It's true, Filch is a git, but burned alive? I'd not wish that on any man."

"Shinji's my friend," Harry said mildly.

"Heh, an' yer in Slytherin yerself. You-know-Who's house," the half-giant said unhappily. "They be calling you the Heir since yeh speak to snakes, just like You-Know-Who."

Hagrid scowled for a moment at the mere thought of the Dark Wizard whose ambition had plunged the Wizarding World into war for over a decade.

Harry blinked. If Voldemort had been a Parselmouth himself, he could see why people would assume the worst if they heard him speak the language of snakes. But there was something hidden in Hagrid's tone – something…

"There's something else, isn't there."

Hagrid grunted again, not quite able to meet Harry's eyes. So Harry decided to change the topic. He didn't want to bring up the topic of the troll at Halloween, so…

"Say, Hagrid – the Gringotts break-in," he asked, remembering his long-passed birthday, when he had first gone to Diagon Alley. "That happened on my birthday, right? Do you think it might have happened while we were there?"

He remembered that Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, taking out a grubby little package from it. Was that what whoever had gotten into the bank been looking for?

Hagrid grunted.

"Hogwarts business, that," the man said brusquely, offering Harry another cake and some tea.

It struck him then, what Hagrid had said about Gringotts being_ 'the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe – _'cept maybe Hogwarts_.'_

And then he knew.

"…that's what's on the Third Floor, isn't it?" Harry said almost to himself. It fit – fit almost too well. "Guarded by that three-headed dog…"

Hagrid dropped the teapot.

"How do you know about Fluffy?" he all but demanded.

"Fluffy?" Harry echoed, thinking the name sounded much too innocuous for something as fierce and powerful as a three headed Cerberus. Shinji had mentioned that such a beast had guarded that corridor, though he hadn't said how he knew, even if he could guess. "That's its name?"

"Yeah - he's mine - bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year - I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the—"

But Hagrid cut himself off abruptly.

"Yes?" Harry asked eagerly.

"No, it's better yeh don' ask," Hagrid said gruffly. "It don' concern yeh none an' 'sides, it's dangerous. The dog and what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel."

"Dumbledore…and Nicolas Flamel," Harry repeated, as the half-giant's eyes bulged comically wide, his face reddening.

"I shouldn'ta told yeh that," the gameskeeper grumbled, looking furious at himself. "What yeh be wanting to know fer anyway?"

"I'm just worried," Harry said, shivering slightly at the reminder that the very large man was indeed very large and possibly threatening if something went wrong. "I mean, something got into Gringotts for whatever you moved, right? I hope there's more guarding it here than just Fluffy."

"Now see here, nothin' can get past Fluffy!" Hagrid replied indignantly. "Not unless they know the secret of how to calm him down, when not a soul knows except an' Dumbledore. Jus' play a bit o' music and he'll go straight off to sl—forget I said that!"

The groundskeeper seemed almost panicked, then sulked.

"Even if s'meone got past him, though," the half-giant said gruffly. "The teachers all did enchantments. Professor Sprout - Professor Flitwick - Professor McGonagall -" he ticked them off on his fingers, one by one "Professor Quirrell – Professor Snape - an' Dumbledore himself did somethin', o' course. No one's getting' past all o' _that_. Not that I know meself what exactly they did. "

But…hadn't Quirrell gone off to the Forbidden Corridor on Halloween, after letting in the Troll as a distraction?

He didn't think Hagrid would appreciate him voicing his concerns though, so he kept quiet about them, just nodding.

"I'm glad it's well protected," Harry said. "But then I know you're good at keeping things safe."

Hagrid beamed in pride.

"Just…don' meddle in things that don' concern yeh none, Harry. It's dangerous."

"Thanks, Hagrid. Don't worry, I won't."

…but that turned out to be a lie.

* * *

><p>When he left Hagrid's hut, the Quidditch game was in full swing, and Harry wanted to talk about this with someone. Under normal circumstances, the fact that there were so many protections around whatever had nearly been stolen from Gringotts would have been a boon – but in this case, Harry was worried.<p>

After all, if Quirrell had been involved in _protecting_ whatever the package was, then it probably would have been easy for him to find out how the other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew everything – except maybe how to get past Fluffy – and even that was probably only a matter of time, given how easily Hagrid let information slip.

'…_the only one who can stop him is another Professor - and that's only if they catch him in the act.'_

But would they? Did they even suspect? No, it was unlikely, since Dumbledore had set up this trap…

'_So_ _the only one who can stop him is Dumbledore.'_

Which meant whatever it was that was hidden was probably safe enough while Dumbledore was in the castle – but if he ever left…

Harry was interrupted from his train of thought by the growling of a very hungry stomach. Fortunately, his feet had carried him to the passage to the kitchens, which he used now, tickling the pear to reveal the doorknob.

"Good afternoon, Harry Potter," the voice of Sokaris greeted him as he entered. The purple-haired Egyptian girl was already inside, drinking something that looked like pea soup with hearty chunks of sausage, onion and potato.

"S-Sokaris!" Harry exclaimed. He hadn't really expected to run into her – or into anyone, really, given how cold and empty the castle had been – and how everyone seemed to be mad about Quidditch. Still, he'd been wanting to talk to someone, and Sokaris seemed the type who wouldn't judge him for his abilities, even if she had called him the Descendent of Slytherin. "…can I join you?"

"If you wish," the Ravenclaw said, her voice a study in detachment.

Harry asked the house elves for a large bowl of chicken soup with fish and chips on the side, and quickly received his order, which he dug into with zest.

"…can I talk to you about something?" he asked of the enigmatic Sokaris. He realized that he didn't know much about her, but then, no one did – except maybe Shinji, and even the Boy from the East wasn't talking.

"If you desire," Sokaris answered, looking at Harry evenly. "Something is troubling you?"

"Yes, well…there's the Heir of Slytherin business," he said quietly, thinking that it would probably be safe to talk to her about it. "The way people look at me, the things they say."

"Yes…rumors have a power all of their own," the girl replied, her expression unreadable. "In some ways, fear, rumor, and echoes are like a curse. People believe them, and so are changed by them."

"…it's true. I just want people to see me as Harry, not to think I have to be a Dark Wizard or a Hero just because I can talk to snakes or helped to defeat a troll."

'_Even if I want to be a hero to live up to what people expect…'_

"You are the Boy-Who-Lived," Sokaris noted. "It is only logical that your peers would regard you as a existence on another level, given what you represent to them."

"…and what is that?"

"Hope," she replied. "Hope, fear, and uncertainty. Your defeat of the Dark Arts user known as Voldemort marked the end of an eleven-year war that shook Magical Britain to its foundations. In the wake of the terror he inspired, the populace needed something to believe in. And so Harry Potter became the legendary Boy-Who-Lived."

"…you don't seem to share their point of view though," Potter observed, noting that neither she nor Shinji had given him any special sort of deference. Perhaps that was why he and the Boy from the East got along so well – because they treated each other as equals, showed each other trust.

"I am not from Magical Britain," Sokaris noted wryly, the edges of her lips quirking up ever so slightly – though perhaps he had imagined it, for it was gone moments later. "I was not raised on the legend of Harry Potter."

"...then can you tell me why…after they found out I could speak to snakes…most of them…?"

'…_feared me. Saw me as a monster', _he left unspoken.

"Because people also fear what is above them," she replied. "And what they fear most is the hero who falls."

"…that I will end up betraying them, you mean?" Harry asked, frowning. "But…if I _was_ evil, wouldn't what Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are doing be…really…really dull?"

'_Meaning that what Slytherin is doing is actually very clever...?'_

"Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are not Houses known for wisdom or cunning," the Ravenclaw remarked, which made Harry smile despite himself. "They tend to be characterized by defiance and groupthink, respectively."

"I thought Gryffindor was known for Bravery, and Hufflepuff for Unity?" Harry questioned.

"One is often mistaken for the other," Sokaris commented, though she did not say which one was more accurate.

"I see," Harry said quietly. Then he thought of something. "But Sokaris…why aren't you at the Quidditch game with the rest of the castle?"

The answer didn't particularly surprise him.

"I dislike crowds," the purple-haired girl replied simply. This Harry could understand full well, as he had no love of vast number of people – and the attention they gave him – either, even if he was determined to live up to their faith in him. "And yourself?"

"…I don't like them much either," Harry admitted, shaking his head. Anyway, this was a fortunate encounter, as Sokaris was in Ravenclaw – she probably knew a little bit about the names Hagrid had mentioned. "Anyway, you mentioned Quirrell was after whatever was in the Third Floor Corridor, that he let the troll into Hogwarts, correct?"

"Indeed. You have relevant information on the matter?" Sokaris inquired, her gaze probing, almost _intense._

"Well…I was talking to Hagrid…"

"The Groundskeeper, yes? I surmise he was responsible for the Cerberus' presence in the school."

"—right. He also said that Quirrell was one of the teachers who had put up protections for whatever was there. Along with the Heads of the Houses and Dumbledore."

"That is troubling," Sokaris noted, frowning at this piece of information. "If he is indeed the thief, he would likely have knowledge of what the other protections were."

"That worries me too," Harry admitted, remembering the nightmare that was the encounter with the troll – and how he'd fought even though he was terrified. "But what could mean so much to him that he'd release a troll in Hogwarts?"

"Do you have any knowledge of what is hidden, Harry Potter?" the Egyptian girl asked, as Harry thought.

"Well, maybe, actually," he said weakly. "I was at Gringotts the day it happened. Hagrid cleared out the vault on 'Hogwarts Business.' He said he was asked to do so by Professor Dumbledore, and that whatever the package was, the matter was between the Headmaster and Nicolas Flamel."

Sokaris seemed to stiffen a little at his words - her eyes narrowing, mouth tightening.

"You recognize the name, Sokaris?"

"Flamel is said to be an Alchemist more talented than any other alive today, as he created a Philosopher's Stone," she said, a tad stiffly. "Though some dispute this and claim he came into the knowledge of how to do so from a…wandering sage."

"…a Philosopher's Stone?" Harry echoed, deciding the hows were unimportant. "That sounds important."

It sounded like it, but Harry really didn't have any idea if it was or not. There was so much he was still learning - though he didn't think he had to put up a front around Sokaris, since she wouldn't judge him. She had secrets enough, he wagered.

"It is the final goal of Alchemy, the secrets of its creation being the greatest of all the arts of At-Alchemists," she related, closing her eyes. "Turning metal into gold is merely one of its minor powers. Among Alchemists, it is best known for conferring immortality upon its bearer through the Water – Elixir of Life it produces, which can cure any illness - even prevent death itself."

"Merlin!" Harry exclaimed, suddenly understanding why such an artifact would be so sought after. "So no one has managed to create one besides this Flamel?"

"So it is said," Sokaris replied, though she seemed somehow unhappy with this line of inquiry. "So…we know what Quirrell's goal then."

For the Stone was a lofty thing indeed. A treasure to make some men desperate, and more envious - though what would drive a man to be ambitious to face Dumbledore, who, after the fall of Voldemort, was considered the most powerful wizard alive?

That bothered him - and greatly.

"…but who would be powerful enough to want to take the Stone while it's at Hogwarts?" Harry asked, giving voice to what was troubling him. As he spoke though, an old memory beginning to surface, words he had heard when he first learned about magic. "I mean, even if Quirrell does manage to steal it, wouldn't one of the teachers stop him – or at least Dumbledore, if the others don't suspect him? How does he expect to get away with it if even Flitwick could stop him?"

"Can you think of none he might serve who might have both power and motive?" Sokaris replied, trading a question for a question. "After all, Harry Potter, why was it you became known as the Boy-Who-Lived?"

"Because I defeated—"

And then he fell silent, eyes widening as an iron fist clenched suddenly around Harry's heart. In the back of his mind, he seemed to hear once more what Hagrid had told him on the night they had met: _"Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die._"

…of course. The one person no one would suspect, because they all thought him dead.

Voldemort.

"Merlin. Then Quirrell is...or is working for…"

"It is a distinct possibility," Sokaris noted grimly. "If he did in fact survive that night, such an artifact might allow his full revival."

Harry sat there, all but frozen.

"But then what can we do? What can we possibly do to stop him from stealing the Stone? We can't possibly fight Quirrell, and the teachers won't believe us."

This much he knew – they would have no reason to suspect the Defense professor was up to anything nefarious, and even then would have perfect faith in Dumbledore – a faith he himself did not share.

"This is true," Sokaris admitted. "Which just means we have do the last thing he'll expect."

"And what's that?"

For a second Harry almost thought Sokaris smiled. Almost.

"Steal it first."


	16. Losses and Gains

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16.<strong> _Losses and Gains_

The opening game of the Hogwarts Quidditch season ended rather disastrously for Gryffindor, as the Slytherin House Team had dominated the match, consistently outscoring their traditional rivals. Frankly, it was worse than the legendary match the year before, where despite the presence of the talented Seeker Charlie Weasley, Slytherin had utterly flattened the House of the Courageous.

Their only consolation was that Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Captain, had been taken out of action due to the work of Gryffindor's Beaters, the Weasley Twins, who had skillfully directed the Bludgers towards him. Perhaps it seemed vengeful or petty, but to Gryffindor, it had been a reminder that even outscored and outmaneuvered, no one could simply afford to ignore them – and it had been the move that had prompted Slytherin to end the game before more of their players became injured.

Of course, while crippling Flint had been a popular move with the Gryffindors, it didn't make them any friends with the other houses, and so to avoid being mobbed by angry Slytherins, the Twins had retreated to Hogwarts' Kitchens, where they hoped a hot meal would make them feel better. At the very least, they could see what the Boy-Who-Lived thought of how Hogwarts handled Quidditch, the Wizarding World's most feted sport.

Thankfully, no one accosted them along the way, but then they knew the secret ways of Hogwarts – and the secrets of sneaking about unseen – better than most. So it was without incident that they arrived at the kitchens, tickling the pear on the painting that served as the door and turning the resulting knob to gain access—

—only to find that they were not alone.

For, house-elves aside, the Kitchens were already occupied by a very troubled Harry Potter, who sat looking down at a platter of roast chicken and vegetables as if he'd seen a Grim in the food's arrangement – an omen of impending death. A Harry Potter who didn't seem to acknowledge their entrance.

'_Did he miss the game?' _was their first thought. Their second however…

"Harry, mate, what's wrong?" one of the twins asked. "You look out of sorts—"

"—like You-Know-Who just walked over your grave!" added the other.

Perhaps the joke was less than entirely tasteful, as that was less, as Harry's response was to pale, his form seeming to shrink into itself as he looked up, his expression haunted.

"…Harry?" George asked, now actually a bit concerned. Something had clearly happened before they'd come in, and they didn't know what. And…since Potter had reacted so strongly, did it have to do with You-Know-Who? But…that Dark Wizard was dead, wasn't he?

"Are you alright?" Fred chimed in, with the twins taking seats across from him. Their issues – losing the Quidditch match – could wait, especially if a friend needed them. It was an odd thing, to think of a Slytherin as a friend, especially given the traditional rivalry between the Houses of the Lion and the Snake, but then, not many Slytherins would have had the courage to stand up to a troll_, _and even fewer as a first year. "What's on your mind?"

"Quirrell," Harry managed to say, though he seemed shaken. "And the Forbidden Corridor."

"We know about that—" Fred began.

"—Sokaris and Matou told us, mate," George finished, only for his brows to knit together as he noticed something. "But there's more, isn't there?"

"What happened, Harry?" they asked together.

It seemed like almost a small eternity before the Boy-Who-Lived replied.

"I didn't go to the Quidditch match today," Harry admitted, deciding to begin at the beginning, with the less traumatic bits. "I went to Hagrid's hut for tea."

"We kind of guessed—"

"—you weren't there—"

"—since you were here before us."

"Right," Harry said softly. "Well, you know the break-in at Gringotts? It happened the day I went to Diagon Alley with Hagrid."

_Go on_, their eyes seemed to be telling him.

"He emptied the vault, took the Philosopher's Stone to Hogwarts. And Quirrell was there that day too – I saw him at the Leaky Cauldron."

"The Defense Professor—"

"—was the one who broke in to Gringotts?"

"And what's this about the Philosopher's Stone?" Hillard asked, as the prefect entered the kitchens, frowning as he looked around. "You haven't seen Matou or Granger here, have you?" The trio already there shook their heads. "I see. Then they must be at the library, with how much those two love their books. Didn't know they'd made up though. But yes, the Stone?"

"Hagrid didn't say what it was exactly, just that it was between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel," Harry related, shaking his head. "S-sokaris was the one who told me what Flamel had made. That it could turn cure any illness, even stop death."

"Well, we knew more about the—"

"—turn things into gold part," the Weasley Twins admitted. "But that's what Quirrell is after, huh? Can't blame him for that, I guess. But why—"

"—would he risk stealing it from Hogwarts?"

"Now _that _is a good question," Hillard noted, as he joined the others at the table. "I had wondered what would make him so willing to challenge Professor Dumbledore – in Hogwarts itself, no less, but the Stone makes sense as few things would. It is one of those objects of legend among wizards, but then who doesn't want to live forever? But…it doesn't _quite_ add up. Even the Stone wouldn't be enough to protect you from Dumbledore's wrath. They only considered two wizards possibly his equal: Grindelwald, who he defeated, and—"

"Voldemort," the Boy-Who-Lived said heavily, causing the others to flinch, as if they expected horrible repercussions from saying his name. "Quirrell is working for Voldemort."

Eyes bulged. Mouths dropped open. Utensils clattered nosily to the table.

"_What." _

Such was the simultaneous reply of all three others in the room (house-elves aside), given the gravity of what he'd said. To imply that the most feared wizard of the last generation was still around in some way, and still had followers, was not something any wished to think about. Not after the war which had decimated families, turned old acquaintances against one another, led to uprisings, deaths, and paranoia. The war which had turned the name of Voldemort from a silly French affectation to the bogeyman of Magical Britain.

"Potter, how _exactly_ did you come to that conclusion?" Hillard asked, looking at the first year intently.

"Yea mate, I thought you killed him—"

"—by bouncing back his Killing Curse somehow—"

"—and that's why you're the Boy-Who-Lived," the Weasley Twins added, frowning as they tried to wrap their heads around this piece of information. They'd been told for years that You-Know-Who was dead, that his reign of terror had been brought to an end by the boy in front of them, but the Boy-Who-Lived was saying otherwise?

"Hagrid told me something – that _he_ didn't have enough human in him to die. For good anyway," Harry explained, closing his eyes as he shook. "And if the Philosopher's Stone can grant immortality, turn back death itself…"

"…you're saying he wants the Stone to _come back_ _to life_?" Hillard surmised, aghast at the mental images that this train of thought brought to mind. A vision of the greatest of all Dark Wizards on a rampage through Hogwarts, with students, teachers, and all hit by curses. Of a young, powerful You-Know-Who, healed of any wounds he may have taken, fighting alongside Professor Quirrell against the old and questionably sane Professor Dumbledore, who was no longer in his prime and had not personally fought a duel in many years. "Merlin, that's…Merlin…"

"We need—"

"—to tell Dumbledore," the twins said, uncharacteristically grim. "If You-Know-Who might be alive…"

"…I don't think that's going to work," Harry said softly, shaking his head. "He's the one who had the Stone brought to Hogwarts as bait for a trap. He probably already knows."

"Or he could just suspect Quirrell," Hillard noted. "And the easiest way to test his loyalties would be to put him in a position where he _could_ take the Stone, or at least to let him think the Stone is within his grasp. Still, you're probably right that telling him wouldn't do any good, since he can't do anything unless it's too late. I assume Quirrell was involved in protecting the Stone, since he was the Defense Professor?"

Harry nodded.

"Hm, then he would likely know what the other protections are, or at least be able to make an educated guess based on who made them. I don't like judging people by their Houses normally, but he was a Ravenclaw – and a brilliant one, at that," Hillard commented, not liking the conclusion he was coming to. "The only thing he might not be able to break through is whatever Dumbledore put up, and if You-Know-Who is really around, that might not be such an obstacle. You're sure about this, Potter?"

"…it's the only thing that makes sense," the Boy-Who-Lived replied, a grimace on his face. "There's no one who wants _him_ dead more than I do, since if he's not, then all the people who died for me did so in vain. But I'm not blind. Quirrell wouldn't go after the Stone on his own. That means either Voldemort is around, or there's someone worse who can back him against Dumbledore."

"Logic is a terrifying thing sometimes," Hillard said to no one in particular. "Unfortunately. And of course, should Dumbledore happen to be away from the castle, there will be no deterrent to the Stone being stolen. Something which might happen during the Christmas Holidays or during exam revision period, since teachers are known to be in and out then, and Dumbledore does have Ministry business around that time. Even if he was in his prime, he can't be in two places at once. So…ideas, gentlemen?"

"Well, Sokaris said, we could…steal it first?" Harry brought up. The words sounded almost absurd now that he said them aloud himself, but the others didn't dismiss the idea. "Make sure that even if he got past the defenses, there would be nothing left for him to take?"

"A valid approach, except if we are caught by someone," the prefect answered him, frowning. "While I enjoy a prank as much as anyone else, this is something else entirely. Frankly, I'm not sure we're up to it – at the very _least_, we'd need a way to make sure we know where everyone is at all times. The last thing we need is to be caught going in or out of the corridor."

"Ah…we may have—"

"—something that could help with that," the Weasleys admitted, looking a bit shifty-eyed as they came under Hillard's scrutiny. After all, the prefect _had_ been after them for a while, and had no doubt wondered how it was they managed to avoid being seen except when they wanted to be. Still, if they were going to be doing something more serious than pranking – as an attempt to steal the Stone would be by any measure – the Society could use every advantage it could get.

"…I had suspected as much, since no one has ever caught you out after hours after first year," Hillard said shrewdly, grunting at their statement. "Whatever you can tell you the location and identify of others around you, I assume – in a radius greater than the maximum range of _Homenum Revelio_."

"…he knows us too well, brother of mine!"

"How will we ever get away with another prank, brother of mine?!"

"That's a topic for another day," Hillard answered, shutting down their antics. "We have the issue of the Stone to worry about."

"…should we find somewhere else to talk about this?" Harry asked, feeling a bit worried as he noticed the House-Elves moving about the kitchens, as they prepared a post-Quidditch feast for the inhabitants of the castle. "I mean…"

"House Elves aren't anything to worry about, Harry," Fred said, dismissing his concerns. "As long as we're not being disloyal to Hogwarts, at any rate."

"A little pranking never hurt anyone," George added. "And even if we go through with this, we're doing it to protect Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore is unlikely to use them as informers anyway," Hillard noted softly, looking over the mass of cooks. "I know you're trying to be careful, but most wizards just think of House Elves as servants and housekeepers, and to be fair, that's usually what they are. Even so, finding another spot might not be a bad idea, even if it's nice to have food when we want and instant transport back to our dorms. After all, we can't exactly duel here, or practice too many of our other skills."

And that was a decent point. Even if house elves informing the teachers of what they plotted wasn't a concern – and Harry wasn't as confident about that as the other members of the Society, dueling wouldn't work here – not when there was a chance of injuring some of the house-elves or Hogwarts furniture. They'd have to talk to Professor Flitwick instead, or just find somewhere else.

"It's too bad you don't know the location of the Chamber of Secrets, eh, Heir of Slytherin?" Fred joked, eying Harry speculatively. "I bet that would be a brilliant place to practice."

"No, I – no, I don't," Harry replied, taken off guard by the sudden question.

"Really?" George remarked. "I think he's holding out on us, don't you think, brother of mine? After all, he's the Heir – must be a seriously evil wizard, right?"

"Right you are, brother of mine. Why, I'm sure his reign will be great and terrible as the Dark Lord Harry!"

But the Boy-Who-Lived just made a face.

"…even if I was going to turn evil – which I'm not – that's would be a stupid name."

"He has a point there," Hillard commented wryly. "It doesn't sound…foreign enough. Maybe the Dark Lord Troyar Repth, which sounds suspicious and foreign. Beats the pants off of 'Try Trap Hero', another anagram of Harry Potter."

Even Harry had to smile weakly at that.

"If I was going to turn evil, I think I'd be more creative in choosing a name," the Boy Who Lived said to that line of thought. "Though no, I don't know where the Chamber of Secrets is."

"Well, we can't practice in the Forbidden Forest—"

"Good ol' Hagrid is always chasing us away from there," George groused. "I'm sure he means well, but calling the Forbidden Forest makes me want to see what's inside—"

"—just not during a detention from Filch."

"Speaking of Hagrid," Hillard asked, as there was something that was bothering him. "How did you get him to tell you all of this? He's known to be loyal to Dumbledore, even if he is a little…simple."

"He knew my parents, I guess," Harry said, thinking back to everything Hagrid had said. "Though I don't think he's very good about keeping secrets in general."

Which was a good thing for them in that now they knew what was behind the corridor and how to get past "Fluffy", as the Cerberus was named, but also a bad thing, if someone else – perhaps Professor Quirrell or an associate – thought to ask as well.

"From what you've said, there are two reasons Dumbledore used him to move the Stone – first, if he's a half-giant, as many of us think he is, he'd be able to resist many common spells," Hillard commented, troubled. "And the second - to let any potential thieves know the Stone was at Hogwarts."

This deeply unsettled Harry. Dumbledore setting a trap for one of the teachers was one thing, but going as far as to dangle the Stone in front of anyone who knew the Stone had been in a certain vault in Gringotts (and how had they known that anyway?) was something else. If a Dark Wizard really did get into Hogwarts, did Dumbledore honestly think that the enemy would not do something like oh…release a troll into the castle…as a distraction, or worse?

"So…"

"….we're going to beat Quirrell to the punch then?" the Weasley Twins asked as one, clearly intrigued by the notion, even if they were somewhat intimidated as well. They were well-known pranksters, but pranks were one thing (and no one _usually_ got seriously hurt in those) – setting themselves against a known Dark Wizard who did not care who got hurt for the sake of his plans was quite another.

"We have to," Harry said, clenching his fists tightly. "It's like with the troll – if we don't stop him, someone else will get hurt. And I…I won't let that happen. Not again."

His voice was quiet, but there was the coldness of iron in it.

He would not let someone else be hurt in his place, when it was _his_ responsibility to stop the Dark Lord.

"If you don't want to come with me though…" the Boy-Who-Lived began.

"No," Hillard interjected. "None of that. If you are set on this, then we will join you. For we are the Stone Cutters. We stand together. We fight together. And if need be, we fall together."

"But…"

"Harrykins, you helped us when you didn't need to—"

"—so let us help you."

Harry was touched by this outpouring of support. Yes, they had made a pact that they would stand together as comrades and brothers-in-arms, but words were cheap in the wake of an exhilarating victory, when there were no threats left. In a way, that explained all the people who had praised him for being the Boy-Who-Lived, who all but worshipped him for ending the reign of "You-Know-Who" – and all of those who had then turned their backs when he was revealed to be a Parselmouth.

People were fickle. Their words meaning little, their actions far more.

"Thank you," was all he could say to these people – these Gryffindors, these Ravenclaws, who stood by him. Who had defended him against the stares of the crowds, and were willing to challenge "You-Know-Who" himself by his side.

He didn't deserve this kind of loyalty, but since he had it, he wasn't going to let them down.

"No need to thank us," Robert said gruffly. "You'd do the same for us. Already did, really. The way I see it, we're in your debt. But if we're doing this, we're doing this _right._ There's no possible way we could be ready by the Christmas Holidays, even if we devoted every waking moment to training ourselves. There's too much we don't know about the corridor's protections, how each of us fight, and any…special abilities we might be able to use. We'll have to aim for revision period."

"The prefect has a point there, brother of mine."

"And if we miss a Quidditch match, Captain Wood will kill us," the other Weasley mentioned, his lips twisting into a grimace as he remembered how the Gryffindor captain had blown his top after today's match. Not happy was…a mild way to put it. "As it is, we'll be practicing hard for the next match until Christmas, at _least."_

"I take it you two are staying at Hogwarts again this Christmas?" Hillard asked the Weasleys, receiving a nod in answer. "And what about you, Harry? Are you staying at Hogwarts or going home?"

"Staying!" Harry said, just a tad quickly, his eyes betraying his surprise that that was even a possibility. He had thought he'd have to spend Christmas with the Dursleys again, and they were hardly his favorite people in the world (to put it lightly).

"Good, then we'll have more time to practice," the prefect noted, looking at the three others in the room. "Let's be honest - beating the Troll was as much luck as anything else. Maybe if there were a few of us all using _Stupefy_ together, or finding some other way to hurt it, that might have worked better, but thinking back…we're lucky we're not dead."

"…yeah," Harry said almost in a murmur, a cold shiver running down his spine. "You're probably right."

"And if Quirrell is a Dark Wizard, he's a foe on a completely other level – we saw him fight, we can't face him and win," Hillard added, recalling the exhibition match with Flitwick. "Not directly. Well, not a straight up duel. We _might_ be able to catch him by surprise, but if he's here for the Stone, I doubt it. Our best chance is to get in, get it, and get out, preferably early on in the exam revision period, if Dumbledore is ever out of the castle."

"Why not before?" one of the twins asked.

"Do you want him to think we're Dark Wizards after the Stone?" Hillard asked dryly. "I know Harry here is a Parselmouth, but let's not add to people's suspicions, eh? For now, we should build up a sense of normality for all of us, which means doing things like attending Quidditch matches, being seen at dinner, and the other things. Unfortunately, since we're known to act as a group, people notice if we're missing – they certainly noticed that Harry was missing today, especially Greengrass and Parkinson."

"Popular with the ladies, are we, Harrykins?" George asked.

"Care to tell us your secrets?" Fred added, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Harry just flushed beet red at the twins' insinuations.

"Fred, George, enough of that," Hillard quipped. He was the de facto leader of the Stone Cutters, if not the official one. "Anyway, you two have prior commitments to Quidditch, and I'm sure Captain Wood would have my hide as well as yours if I were to encourage you to skip. Harry, be careful. You know better than any of us that Slytherin will only cover your back as long as you seem to have their interests at heart."

The Boy-Who-Lived nodded. It was true, after all.

"Right then. So we'll all be going to the Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff game," Hillard continued. "Under the circumstances, I would prefer if you all cheered for Ravenclaw and our new Seeker, if you don't mind. Chang could probably use the extra confidence, especially going up against Diggory, who was probably the best Seeker at Hogwarts after Charlie Weasley."

"It will be—"

"—wee little Matou's—"

"—first game too, right? Can we—"

"—dress him up?"

Hillard sighed.

"If you can convince him. I'll not have one of my Ravenclaws harassed if he says no, you understand?"

"Perfectly," the Twins chorused, predatory smiles mirrored on their faces.

* * *

><p>While Harry had been talking with Hillard and the Weasley Twins in the Kitchens, Shinji and Hermione had been doing their research in the great library of Hogwarts. They'd looked through a staggering amount of books, uncovering information on Dumbledore's past, Hogwarts, and of course, the alchemist named Nicolas Flamel, lauded creator of the Philosopher's Stone.<p>

Though Shinji was struck by the muggle accounts that Flamel, a reseller of manuscripts, had come into possession of a mysterious tome from Egypt, which contained the recipe for the Philosopher's Stone instead of creating it independently, it was something Hermione Granger found which solidified the Hogwarts/Alchemy link in his mind.

Namely, she had discovered a tome that talked of Dumbledore's alchemical work with Nicolas Flamel, one of the three major things he was famous for.

That had been all Shinji needed to come to a come to his conclusion of what was hidden in the Forbidden Corridor – though it did make him wonder why Sokaris hadn't just told him, given that he was sure she already knew. After all, given her interest in Alchemy, he was certain she knew about the connection between Dumbledore and Flamel – and had at least strong suspicions about what that implied – but then she'd admitted to suspecting what was there.

He just didn't know how much she suspected and how much she truly _knew_, given that the Stone was something of a red flag.

And how did he feel, now that he too, _suspected_ what was there?

It wouldn't do to become annoyed at Sokaris – she'd likely just disappear again, to wherever the '_Come and Go Room_' was.

Besides, looked at from a certain point of view, he could see why she would not share everything she knew, given that he thought they both had a similar background. And, well, should anyone find out what he was looking into and grow curious, it would seem more than a little suspicious if all of his leads came from Sokaris herself.

He already wondered how she had seen Quirrell release a troll into the castle without the man noticing her, but hadn't asked, as he was sure she wouldn't tell him. Not unless it suited her goals, just as he only shared his knowledge of ofuda with Potter, rudimentary though it was, because it suited _his._

Shinji was also curious if Sokaris had an ulterior motive in all this – if she was a metamorphmagus from the Centre for Alchemical Studies in Egypt, or was an associate of Flamel who had less than complete faith in Professor Dumbledore's ability to keep the stone safe, or who wanted it for herself. Then again, the fact that she seemed to genuinely struggle in Transfiguration hinted against that, since this was first year material, and if she were a metamorphmagus or an older witch using Polyjuice, her Transfiguration skills would likely be at the top of the class.

In many ways, she was a mystery, if an enjoyable one to try and decipher.

Though he would admit that time with Hermione Granger was enjoyable in a different sort of way, since she soaked in positive attention like a sponge.

Shinji had the impression that Granger was in truth a very lonely person, who had had few friends and didn't understand _why._ The type who obeyed the rules, listened to the teachers, did what she was supposed to – and didn't know why no one praised her for it, why other people thought she was a know-it-all when she was only trying to _help_, why she was bullied for trying to do the right thing.

The type who wasn't really good with people, who followed the rules not necessarily because it was what she was supposed to do, but because it meant those in authority would at least accept her. Based on a combination of her rant about Harry's Sorting on the first day they'd met as well as the ramblings, ravings, and sobs he had heard on the night Harry had been revealed to be a Parselmouth, Shinji knew Hermione longed for acceptance and recognition.

It was clear that left to her own devices, she would have joined Gryffindor, and had only come to Ravenclaw because she'd met Sokaris – who had accepted her for who and what she was – who she had considered a friend.

This was why the perceived betrayal of Sokaris aligning with the Stone Cutters – rulebreakers - had hurt Granger so badly, because she thought Sokaris was like her, and that her acceptance meant she was _right_ to act as she did.

And now she didn't know.

That lack of certainty could be deadly, though Shinji himself had learned to accept it. Whether Sokaris was aligned with him and the rest of the Stone Cutters, or just using them for her own ends, such was her business. As long as each of them benefited from it, Shinji didn't really mind – it wasn't as if his own relationship with Potter – or now with Granger – was that different anyway.

_Speaking of which…_

He studied the brown-haired girl as she read a rather thick tome, lips pressed together in concentration. She'd helped him today – and not an inconsiderable amount, either – as they sifted through the many tomes in the library, looking for useful data. Not for the first time, he wished a proper filing system had been introduced – a card catalogue at least, but that was neither here nor there.

What was on his mind was how he could thank her for the help. While the simplest and most obvious way was to show her the path to the Kitchens, so that she could find Sokaris and talk to the elusive purple-haired girl, he didn't think that would be a good idea, not without talking to the rest of the Society. Given how fickle she could be, and how their deeds might involve pranks, or worse, he didn't want to put the others at risk – and he doubted Sokaris would appreciate it if he simply brought the girl over to her.

He'd give her something, if he could, but since he wasn't about to share his knowledge of ofuda, didn't have any money to buy something, as Matou Zouken hadn't left him with an allowance, and had no convenient stash of magical items and artifacts he could pilfer, he wasn't sure what to do.

In the end, he'd settled for simply telling her "thank you," saying that she had been a great help. When she asked how, he'd explained that he was trying to figure out was hidden in the Forbidden Corridor, and that based on the hints, he thought it might be the Philosopher's Stone, though she thought he was being silly, since obviously Flamel, like any rational person, would not let that artifact out of his sight or control.

Shinji didn't really have it in him to point out that most practitioners of witchcraft, from what he'd seen, were not very good at using common sense and had simply nodded. He'd also said that Sokaris had been curious if there were any connections between the topics mentioned, and that the work done today would help her, though Hermione's smile had faltered just a little at that.

"…Matou. Do you…erm…_like_ Sokaris?" Hermione asked, feeling embarrassed to even ask the question! But, well, she couldn't figure out a reason a young wizard would willingly give up watching a Quidditch game to do hard work in the library for a girl if not _that_. Plus well, she'd seen how those two acted, as if they shared some kind of secret, and…and….who knew what they got up to in those private rooms!Well, ok, even she knew that was a stretch, but still…

Granted, going to the library and looking something up for her was more mature approach than the boys she'd heard of – those who pulled a girl's hair, teased her about her looks or studying habits or who knew what, but, she felt…_conflicted_.

She didn't know why, but the thought of Matou spending time with Sokaris made her chest almost painfully tight. It wasn't as if she was jealous or anything. She didn't even know what that felt like, but…

"Hm?" Shinji vocalized, not quite understanding what she was getting it.

"You know…" the bushy brunette said, not quite meeting his eyes. "Do you like…spending time with her?"

They did seem to spend much time together, partnering up for Potions, disappearing at odd times – _coming back together late at night once, _with Sokaris refusing to answer too many questions. Not that she ever had but…

"I like spending time with you too," Shinji said diplomatically. He didn't know exactly what she meant, but he got the sense that if he just said yes or no, things would end badly. So…surely it couldn't hurt to say he enjoyed spending time with the person who was asking?

"I-I see," Hermione stammered, as she looked down and blushed, not having expected that response. No boy had ever said he enjoyed spending time with her before. They'd all complained about her being a know-it-all, or worse, but he'd happily looked things up with her all day.

She…she didn't know what to do in a situation like this, had never expected it. He was a rule-breaker…a…a…prankster, and…

A traitorous part of her mind told her the setup was almost like _Romeo and Juliet_. Two people, who seemed almost destined to hate one another, but who…

_No. No. No. No._

It couldn't be. She couldn't…_like_ him. That would be _wrong. _She couldn't like someone like _that_…could she?

The rest of the day was spent in silence, as they simply studied together more or less companionably, each unsure of what to say to the other.

* * *

><p>In the coming days, Shinji learned from Hillard – and through the letters he exchanged with Harry – what the Boy-Who-Lived had discovered. In hindsight, he should have figured that Potter would be involved with this mess somehow, or that Sokaris would have consulted him, instead of just going to the library, but he hadn't thought it would be a good idea to bother him.<p>

If he'd known that Harry wasn't going to be at the game in advance, he could have worked on his relationship with the boy, but he supposed that what had happened instead had been revealing in its own right, giving him two pieces of useful information.

Sokaris had proposed the theft of the Philosopher's Stone, allegedly to stop Quirrell from getting it first.

…and Voldemort might not be dead.

Somehow, neither of these were too much of a surprise, as he had long suspected that Sokaris had her own designs on whatever lay in the Forbidden Corridor, given her area of interest. Originally, he'd just been thankful for the information that Quirrell had been responsible for the Troll Incident, giving him a target for his ire, but seeing how she'd been able to get close to Potter and manipulate him into helping her had been much more telling.

Not that her actions changed what he was planning or who he sided with – Quirrell's actions could have killed him, while Sokaris had been reliable enough as an ally of sorts to date. And since he himself didn't have any use for the Philosopher's Stone (as the _last_ thing he needed was an immortal Matou Zouken), she was welcome to whatever she wanted from it.

Besides, given the circumstances, he would have likely proposed exactly the same thing, since Sokaris' reasoning had been sound. As students, going up against a skilled practitioner of witchcraft would be foolhardy at best, suicidal at worst.

Well, Harry might survive, as the exact circumstances that had led to him becoming the Boy-Who-Lived were yet unknown. So far, Shinji was going off of the assumption that either there was something inherent to Harry that was anathema to Voldemort, or perhaps Dark Wizards in general, or that perhaps Harry's parents had used something like formalcraft, using their sacrifice to power a ritual of protection or magical resistance that stopped the Killing Curse.

'…_though I don't think I'll mention that to Harry. He has enough pressure on him now, and I am not sure that was what happened.'_

It did make a certain sort of sense though, as, at its highest levels battles of thaumaturgy were not about a mere struggle of power, but about a duel of concepts, where the more complete conceptual framework would win out.

Or so he'd read anyway – having never participated in such a thing before, Shinji had no idea if it was true, just that the conceptual model of formalcraft, and the sacrifice required to compensate for lack of power, could very well empower rituals greater than what a single-action spell could accomplish.

In the past days, he'd had to go to a Quidditch match for the first time – the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff game, as the other Stone Cutters had badgered him into going. The Weasley twins had even tried to talk Shinji into wearing a great eagle costume – and then a living eagle hat that would flap its wings and cry out whenever Ravenclaw scored, along with coloring his robes blue and bronze for the day.

Both attempts at persuasion had failed.

Given his last experience with the Twins and transfigured things, he had been less than enthusiastic about the prospect, and eventually they'd eased off, sensing his discomfort. He _had _ended up going, and had even enjoyed seeing the players flit about on their brooms, though the size of the crowd unnerved him – as did the enthusiasm of some of the people in the audience, who had colored their robes – and skin – blue and bronze as they waved banners about in support of the team.

At first, he had been a bit confused, but Hermione Granger had plopped down next to him, explaining the rules of the game as she knew them, pointing out the positions, players, and incidents she'd read in _Quidditch Through the Ages. _It was nice to have someone tell him these things, since he didn't actually know anything about the game. He didn't know why Hermione had decided to take it upon herself to keep him company, since he didn't think she liked Quidditch herself, but well, it was better than having to ask someone else what was going on and thus look foolish.

…and this mattered because referees who people thought foolish sometimes vanished and turned up months later in the Sahara, though personally Shinji was not convinced that that wasn't because the referee had made a call that cost someone a good deal of money.

Still, even if appearances weren't everything, they were still _something._

In any case, Ravenclaw ended up winning, with their new Seeker, fellow Asian Cho Chang beating a flustered Cedric Diggory, Seeker of Hufflepuff, to the Golden Snitch (which, as Hermione informed him, used to be a bird called the Golden Snidget, with the 150 points coming from the 150 Galleons a former Chief of the Wizard's Council – the equivalent of the Ministry at the time – had offered to the player who could catch it. The practice of using live birds had been discontinued when the Snidget had almost been rendered extinct due to sporting events). Apparently, the Hufflepuffs had been overconfident, as they thought that a new Seeker with only a month or two of training, and only a second year at that, would stand no chance against a seasoned veteran.

But…they were wrong.

Cho Chang, being nimbler and lighter, had outsped the heaver-set Diggory, whose larger frame had the unfortunate result of generating more air resistance and slightly higher moments of inertia. Given brooms of equivalent performance, and of course, Diggory's dismissal of the Ravenclaw Seeker as a threat, the result was obvious.

Ravenclaw had won a commanding victory, with the final score coming in at 180 to 60.

Robert Hillard had made it a point to present a bouquet of long-stemmed blue roses to the Seeker who had made the victory possible, commending her performance as well as her beauty.

This display earned a shy smile and a deep blush from the girl – which even Shinji found fairly attractive—whereupon Penelope Clearwater, his fellow fifth-year Prefect, had badgered her fellow prefect, saying he really shouldn't do things that would be misinterpreted, and besides, the girl was just twelve years old.

Hillard had proceeded to grouse that some people just didn't have a proper appreciation of the noble sport of Quidditch, or how significant the victory was. George and Fred Weasley, however, just glared at the back of his head, feeling a little miffed that he had something to cheer for – and that their team most certainly didn't. But well, if Ravenclaw could beat Slytherin, that would be fine too. They'd be able to tell Flint he'd been beaten by a girl.

There had been a party in the normally sober and hard-working House of Knowledge that night, with finger foods, butterbeer, and other such going around, and many people cheering. In fact, Professor Flitwick had popped in at one point to toast both the Ravenclaw Team, as well as the valor of their prefect – and Matou Shinji – in dealing with the Troll. Truly, it was the beginning of a fine year, and he was very, very proud of them.

Shinji had never known anything like it – to feel like he was a part of a much greater whole – to be cheered, applauded by his peers.

In some ways, it was intoxicating.

When the party broke that night, Shinji had returned to the hallway where the study rooms were, and was less than surprised to find Sokaris waiting there, leaning against the wall.

"You are a difficult person to find, Sokaris," he commented, feeling slightly buzzed from the butterbeer. "Especially when people are looking for you."

"What would be the point otherwise?" she replied wryly, leading him to think she did find her disappearances to be something of a game. "If I were always available, I would be taken for granted."

And perhaps it was – one could consider many things such, really.

"You do have a point," Shinji conceded, with a nod. "But onto business."

"Naturally," Sokaris said quietly, her face cold and impassive. "You have concerns for the Philosopher's Stone, I assume."

"You knew," he asserted, meeting her gaze.

"I suspected_,"_ she replied, her purple eyes betraying nothing.

"And what you told Potter – that we should steal it before Quirrell does?"

"Is that not the logical approach?" Sokaris asked, a trace of a very slight smile on her face. "Rather than confronting the one they call He-Who-Must-Be-Named directly?"

"…I suppose it is," Shinji admitted, closing his eyes. "But you have an interest in this, don't you?"

"Not a difficult deduction, when I have admitted such," the purple-haired girl noted, simply. "Or when I was the one who brought you the knowledge of Quirrell's doings."

"Why then?" Shinji questioned, asking the obvious question. "What _is _your interest in the Stone? And the Stone Cutters?"

"The Philosopher's Stone must not be allowed to be stolen by a practitioner of witchcraft who does not understand its powers – or to be destroyed," the self-admitted alchemist spoke, her voice more intense than Shinji had ever heard it. "Using it as bait in a trap is reprehensible at best. Allowing its destruction or theft by another party is unforgivable."

For a brief, brief moment, he could feel something like the killing intent of Aozaki Touko, something coiled, controlled, powerful. Something that was like the scorching winds of the desert, sand that scraped and tore apart all in its path.

And then it was gone, as Shinji swallowed. That kind of outrage…had to be genuine.

"You don't have just an interest in Renkinjutsu, do you?"

"Your conclusion may be correct," Sokaris said as she turned to go – but stopped, hesitating. "Matou Shinji, a word."

"Yes?" Shinji asked, curious as to what she might want.

"While the concept of a holiday gift is foreign to me, I believe it is customary to give acquaintances an item or knowledge, yes?"

Shinji nodded cautiously.

"That is usually what Christmas means in the West," he acknowledged, frowning. "You don't know it?"

"I was raised in a more austere environment, where such material traditions did not exist," the girl admitted. "As such, I do not have much to offer, aside from a secret."

"A secret?"

"A Room that contains a great many artifacts, many of which have been lost to time and have no known owner," she answered, nodding at the expression of interest that stole across his face at her words. "I believe it is called the Room of Hidden Things."

"…and where might this room be?" Shinji asked. He wasn't about to ask how she knew of it – that part was likely unimportant.

"This room is located on the Seventh Floor of the castle, in the left corridor. The entrance is directly opposite from a tapestry depicting an attempt to teach trolls…ballet, but is hidden."

"And how do you reveal it?"

"One must walk past the entrance three times, thinking of a place where things can be hidden, and the Room will be called," Sokaris concluded. "Consider the contents a gift, Matou Shinji."

With that she turned and disappeared into her room, leaving Shinji rather thoughtful…and more than a little sheepish that he hadn't thought of what to get anyone for Christmas yet.

Obviously, he would have to check out this grand sounding Room soon. After all, there was no harm in regifting…was there?

* * *

><p>AN: In response to the reviewer who complained about the "Merlin" thing, the only person who uses that word extensively in this story _and_ has only known about the magical world for a few months is Harry himself – which is something he has been doing deliberately after his Sorting into Slytherin. Under other circumstances, it would indeed take much longer for him to acculturate to the Wizarding World, but in the house of the ambitious and cunning, where one is expected to know the culture, it is more difficult to get by while using Muggle manerisms.


	17. Hidden Things

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17.<strong> _Hidden Things_

As the weeks ticked by without further incident, the student body at Hogwarts allowed themselves to breathe a sigh of relief. While the Boy-Who-Lived and the Stone Cutter Society may have been involved in much of the chaos in October and November, it seemed that even they respected the magic of the holiday season. And so chill grey November mornings gave way to December, with many young wizards and witches waking to find the grounds of Hogwarts covered by over a meter of snow and the lake frozen over at last.

Truly, Christmas was in the air on the Scottish highlands. The Halloween decorations had been taken down at last, and the smell of fresh pine boughs, holly and mistletoe hung all around the walls, with the Great Hall festooned with towering Christmas trees stood around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with hundreds of candles.

There was indeed a certain magic to winter time not described by any magical foundation, a magic that quelled trouble, brought peace to human hearts and generally kept people better behaved…

…though some of this lack of trouble could be attributed to the fact that the drafty corridors of the castle had become icy, with the bitter chill of winter nipping at the noses and bums of unprepared students and errant gusts rattling the windows of the classrooms.

These, for the most part, were kept nice and toasty, and for once, no students could be seen scrambling to take their seats in the few moments between the time classes officially started and the Professors actually began their lectures or demonstration. While other classes captured students' attention now and then, Professor Flitwick's Charms class was a perennial favorite around this time of year, as he taught (or reviewed) practical spells such as _Incendio _(the Fire-making Charm), _Reparo_ (the Mending Charm) and the Hot-Air Charm, which as the name indicated caused hot air to stream from the tip of the wand – quite useful for drying off wet clothes or to melt snow.

Professor Snape's Potions Classes, on the other hand, tended to be the last thing students wanted to attend – but knew they had to, else they lose house points and suffer the ire of their peers. For unlike the others, the Potions classrooms were not heated, so students shivered helplessly, forced to huddle close to their hot cauldrons – but not so close their robes caught fire.

Now, there was good reason for this, as even Severus Snape did not believe in cruelty for cruelty's sake. It was simply a fact that one prepared potions by mixing together magical substances that had been prepared in a precise order, quantity and fashion to break down what was there and create a new substance – a mixture with its own magical effects. In essence, creating a potion was a way of reprocessing the inherent magic of its components into what was essentially a drinkable spell.

Students had of course seen the disastrous effects that often resulted from adding ingredients in an improper order or quantity, with the explosions and melting of cauldrons by Longbottom or Weasley earlier in the year serving as spectacular examples of such – though he would admit that even Longbottom had started to improve after Snape had forced him to work with the Dunbar girl instead – the one Gryffindor whose work he found more than simply passable.

But these effects did not compare to the dire consequences of contamination by foreign magic – which included wand magic unless the aspiring potioneer knew _exactly_ what he or she was doing. Given that most students preferred to just follow directions, without understanding why those directions were the way they were, or the underlying theory of how the ingredients interacted…

Well, suffice it to say that this was the reason that Severus Snape did not allow students to use wands in class, as reckless use of magic could result in much worse than simply a melted cauldron, which was, in the grand scheme of things, minor, even if it reminded him how idiotic many young children were.

Not that his scorn was limited to young children, for too many who came through his classroom saw following the textbook prescribed formulae for potion-crafting as the key to mastering Potions, when doing so would merely make one _adequate. _Textbooks, after all, provided _functional_ recipes that even a complete dunderhead would find it difficult to get completely wrong – not necessarily the formulations that would produce the most potent potions.

He and Lily had both suspected this after none of their own potions had turned out with the hue, smell or other qualities the book had described. Determined to fix this, they had done some experimentation, daring to explore somewhat heterodox combinations _once they had assembled a working knowledge of the theory_ behind potioneering. How different methods of preparation affected the potency and volatility of an ingredient, what the logic behind the order and ratio of ingredients added, and how these ingredients interacted with both each other and with the world around them. Understanding these took more work than most wizards were willing to do in a lifetime, as one needed to not only memorize and recite – but _apply and derive_, which was far harder than mere memorization.

Hence he had called potion-making a subtle science and exact art, as there was far more to it than the simple wand work that most of his colleagues taught as magic. To be fair, he recognized that some of his colleagues were competent in their chosen field, and that Filius and Minerva at least were willing to experiment and learn new things, but their students were generally mediocrities.

Severus Snape had never aspired to mediocrity – not for himself, and certainly not from his students. Quite frankly, he hated it.

He tolerated it in some of his students, yes, but only because the alternative – being a danger to themselves and others – was too terrible to imagine. He _would not_ be known as the man who failed to instill in his students a healthy respect for the dangers of potioneering.

That was the other reason he played the part of the villain – the stern taskmaster that no student enjoyed time with – to challenge them, keep them on their toes, make them want to prove him wrong. Sadly, he found that most students were spineless or defiant when challenged, that they never went the extra mile, never worked harder than they had to.

They had no drive, and that sickened him.

Still, a few surprised him every now and then, enough to make his job at Potions Master worthwhile while he waited to see if Albus would finally let him teach Defense against the Dark Arts.

This year had been especially difficult, since Potter had come to Hogwarts – had been in his House. Generally, he expected mere competence from first years, however much it grated on him, but he had hoped for more from _her_ son. After all, he remembered the brilliance of Lily each time he looked at the boy and found him _wanting_ by comparison. It reopened his wounds, reminded him that _she_ was gone and it had been all his fault. _His_ fault for passing on the prophecy.

That Lily's son had gone on to fight a troll – a reckless thing indeed – and gather a group of friends that were at least nominally pranksters brought up bad memories for him, since the Marauders had been like that. But then, the Marauders had all been Gryffindors – and this time, the group crossed the House lines, so perhaps there was some hope that the boy would not become his father.

Though Snape did smile a thin-lipped smile at the thought of how _Potter_ would have reacted to see his son in Slytherin – and revered as the Heir of Slytherin due to his status as a Parselmouth, no less. _Potter_ would have turned in his grave – and to be honest, Snape didn't mind that _he_ was dead – just that Lily was.

But on top of all that had been the poor performance of Ronald Bilius Weasley, a boy who, true to his name, had a peevish, ill-natured disposition towards Slytherin House, and whose sense of entitlement and laziness was second only the memory of _Potter_. Still, _Potter_ at least had been reasonably intelligent – this boy…well, Snape supposed he could be charitable and say that he was every inch a Gryffindor, all blood and bile and no brains.

At least two members of Ravenclaw House had shown themselves to have some degree of potential at his Art.

Not, however, the Granger girl that Minerva and Filius gushed about. He would grant that she was always proficient in brewing her potions according to the textbook methods, and could always give chapter and verse for how to prepare an ingredient, but that was it. Others might consider it intelligence, brilliance, really, but all Snape thought it meant was that she had a good memory. To his mind, she was so caught up on memorizing minutiae that she missed the big picture – how it all fit together.

It was the two foreigners who impressed him - the Sokaris girl in particular, as he could tell that the Matou boy was following her lead. From the consistent quality of their work and the way that their technique differed from that taught in the standard textbooks, he thought they might have a deeper understanding of the theory of potion-making than most displayed. He'd spent more than one class period observing them, and while their work wasn't perfect by the standards of a Master, it was far better than he'd expected.

Good enough that for the first time in several years, Severus Snape thought that Hogwarts might finally have a suitable representative for the next time the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship was hosted – the grand potioneering competition where the best student potioneers from schools around the world competed for eternal glory – and a golden cauldron. And while most thought potioneering competitions to be dry, dull affairs, this one was about as far from brewing in the safe conditions of the classroom as one might imagine, as it was held in an enchanted garden full of dangerous creatures, clever obstacles, and more.

Granted, the two would still be below the customary age of entry (seventeen, the age of majority in the magical world – the usual stipulated as such for reasons of law and liability) by 1995, when the next Championship was to occur, but unless one of the Weasley Twins were to compete (and here Severus shuddered at the thought of sponsoring those rabble-rousers in such a prestigious competition), they represented his best hope for Hogwarts to take home the Golden Cauldron.

Otherwise, victory would likely go once again to either the Uagadou School of Magic or to _Mahoutokoro, _the two favorites each time the Championship was held.

Indeed, Hogwarts had not even sent a Champion for decades now – something Severus Snape was determined to change, but only if whoever was sent stood a good chance of victory. And while it was certainly too early to choose a Champion, it was never quite _too_ early to take note of excellence in this most mysterious and misunderstood branch of magic.

So this time, as the duo of Sokaris and Matou turned in their potions – the best in the class, as usual – he allowed himself to acknowledge them with a nod and a drawled out "Acceptable" – which was still more approval than he had shown to any other first year to date.

What could he say? Severus Snape had never been effusive with praise. To change that now would seem wildly out of character and make the students think he was up to something.

Well, more than usual, that was. He was only grateful no one had commented on his still-lingering limp. A Cerberus' bite was difficult to heal, given the dark nature of the beast which in lore had guarded the gates of the underworld.

* * *

><p>And then there was Defense against the Dark Arts.<p>

Frankly, given how mixed a record Defense had throughout the years, with no teacher lasting longer than a year, most of the students hadn't expected much. Especially not from the man who used to be the Muggle Studies Professor, given that he wasn't a decorated dueling champion (like Flitwick), didn't have an obviously villainous bent (like Snape), and wasn't an honored hero of the wizarding world (like Dumbledore, though many thought he was going a bit senile too – after all, the old saying did go that those who could _did_, while those who couldn't, taught).

They certainly hadn't expected him to cover the theory and practice of the Unforgivable Curses, explaining in detail how each one worked, the myths surrounding each one, and how one might defend against them (having strong willpower in the case of the Imperius Curse, and either _getting out of the way_ of the other two, or intercepting the spell with another spell).

And after his demonstration against Professor Flitwick, where a simple spell like the Knockback Jinx – the basic of all offensive spells – had blocked a number of others – they were eager to learn. They too wanted to know how to "fence" with spells, how to stand fast in the face of danger and be _great_.

His response had been that effective use of this technique generally required the ability to use non-verbal spells (or the use of legilimency to predict what spell a person was about to use) due to the reaction speed and precision one needed, but that nevertheless, he was willing to instruct the best student of each year in the basics of the technique immediately before the exam revision period. But of course, _he_ would be the one to determine the best – and that it didn't mean necessarily mean being the best at written tests, as one's practical performance and willingness to learn would be taken into account.

Naturally, given the chance to learn such a rare and – potent – skill, the students redoubled their efforts to prove themselves worthy. After all, it was rare enough that a year-agnostic skill was offered. One that could _block even the Killing Curse_ though? Something like _that_, every young witch and wizard coveted more than fame, more than gold, more than almost anything else they could imagine.

After all, it all went back to fear, and there was nothing most feared – most wanted to run from – more than Death. Whether it was biological death, social death (with one's reputation and name utterly destroyed), or the death of one's will (which was possible enough given the thousand natural shocks the flesh was heir to). Now, to Quirrell, some fools might call death the 'next great adventure,' but then he considered those people already dead in spirit, pale shadows of what they had once been, now that they were utterly unwilling to fight against ruin and decay, simply accepting it. In a way, he thought those people wanted to die, overburdened with the weight of their sins, but lacked the courage to simply take their own lives be done with it.

And so they dragged a world down with them.

So the one lesson that Quirrell hoped his students learned was to never simply be paralyzed into simply accepting death by fear – fear of a name, fear of what one had done wrong, fear of one's future sins and failures.

To him, that was the greatest crime – the greatest tragedy – of all.

He'd studied Muggle culture as well as that Wizarding World – which was only natural, for he'd been the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts – and one thing that had always struck him was how Muggles advanced, overcame obstacles, developed new and greater ways to solve their problems, while wizards and witches relied on age old magic and thought themselves better, with their society a rotten one, based on lies, racism, willful ignorance.

Such things had brought about the tragedy of Grindelwald – the great idealist and would be revolutionary who had been so misguided, thinking that the way forward had been for Wizards and Witches to rule over Muggles, that this would end cruelty and xenophobia – when Wizarding Society as a whole was built on cruelty and fear of the outside world. Fear, which in Grindelwald, had turned to anger, anger to hate, hate to a desire to rule.

Most wizarding historians recorded Grindelwald as being responsible for what the Muggles called World War II, with the man named Hitler merely his Muggle pasty, but Quirrell knew better than that. That kind of tripe, that casual disdain of Muggle society, was easy enough for most wizards to swallow because on some level, most of them agreed with Grindelwald – that Muggles were lesser beings, and acted accordingly. This even carried over to Muggleborns, where they were assumed to be less, to not have the same capabilities, as a group, and were not taken on an individual case.

It was this research that had led him to examine Voldemort's reign of terror in detail – as on the surface, the Dark Lord's desire to rule had seemed to conflict with his followers' desire to wipe out the Muggles and the Muggleborns. But considering who his followers – the Knights of Walpurgis – and later the Death Eaters – had been, the most radical of the Pureblood Supremacists, Quirrell thought that perhaps he had only espoused such beliefs in order to gather his army – and that his true intentions had not been as simple and crude as the oppression of Muggles.

No. Like Grindelwald, Quirrell thought that Voldemort was a revolutionary – that he had had a deeper purpose, that what he aimed to do was nothing less than destroy the rotten foundations of Magical Britain, at least. While most focused now on how the Dark Lord had gone after Muggleborns, Quirrell thought that that had only been the goal of his followers, that _he _had considered them merely acceptable casualties. After all, had he simply wished to back the Pureblood agenda, Voldemort could have simply seized power or even legitimately become Minister of Magic in his own right, with the backing he had– but he hadn't. He'd fought – chosen to fight – a long, protracted war – a war which had inspired fear, had caused incidents the Ministry had been forced to cover up, destroyed many old families – both among his forces and those of the Ministry's supporters.

And then…the Dark Lord's reign of terror had been brought to an abrupt close by the Boy-Who-Lived, the noble revolution cut short, with society returning to exactly how it had been. As it had been before the war, most of the Purebloods who had served the Dark Lord with any inkling of intelligence had failed to be punished for their acts – with the most egregious offender, Lucius Malfoy, now effectively in control of the Ministry through his bribery of Fudge.

If _that_ didn't speak to the corruption of Wizarding Society, Quirrell didn't know what did. Perhaps his extensive reading was why the Ravenclaw did not see the Boy-Who-Lived as a hero, but as an unwitting villain – someone who, simply by existing, had simply preserved a decadent, corrupt status quo. Even so, the group of friends the boy was gathering was an interesting one.

A prefect, two pranksters, and that odd boy from the Far East, where few wizards from the west had ever ventured, who had defeated a troll.

_His_ troll.

And then there was the purple-haired girl, Sokaris, who was allegedly from Egypt and had an old – olive - wand. This had seemed odd to him, given the fact that the Philosopher's Stone – the greatest achievement of Alchemy – was also at Hogwarts. Perhaps if he were not interested in acquiring the Stone for himself, he would be able to overlook the oddities about her, but he was. Originally, he had planned on faking a stutter to lull Hogwarts into complacency, given the average intelligence of most wizards, but then, if Sokaris was what he suspected she was – a ringer – a secret guard for the Stone dispatched by the Centre for Alchemical Studies posing as a student – such a façade would have been incredibly suspicious.

That wasn't to say he minded showing off his true power – after all, he _enjoyed_ showing off. Few knew this, but the one thing he'd ever wanted out of life was to become great. In his youth, he'd been entirely too timid, ruled by fear and a feeling of insignificance. People had laughed at him, made fun of simple, delicate Quirrell – they had even done so when he was the Muggle Studies professor, since that position had been seen with such disdain. But now, as the Defense Professor, no one laughed. His students looked at him with reverence, hungry for the knowledge he could provide – and he reveled in it.

Which was why, after teaching them a modicum of defensive spells, running them through a number of practice duels, and instructing them on the particulars of a number of Dark creatures, he thought it was time for a practical test.

"…and so in the spirit of the holiday season, I too have some gifts to give to the worthy," the Defense professor said coolly, moving to the front of the classroom and pulling on what looked like empty air – to reveal a desk laden with number of intriguing items – and an invisibility cloak in his hand, its fabric a shimmery silvery gray that caught the light. "Including the cloak of course."

Now _this_ certainly grabbed the attention of his students, a fact he noted as he picked up the artifacts one by one, and showed them off.

"As for the other items available, we have a set of two-way mirrors," he said, holding up what seemed at first to be simple pocket mirrors, utterly unremarkable. "The trick of these is that they are magically connected so one can communicate with someone else, whilst in different locations. Holding one, simply speak the name of the person who owns the other, and they will know."

Not unlike a Muggle telephone in that way, though these were at least portable.

"Then of course, we have a magical penknife," Quirrell continued, putting down the silver backed mirrors and picking up the small tool. "But it is not just any penknife – it has attachments that allow it to open any lock and untie any knot, even if they have been protected against Alohomora or similar spells."

This he put down as well, picking up a black, leathery pouch that attracted a good amount of attention.

"Yes, I'm sure some of you recognize this item," he said, showing it off to the class. "This is of course, a Mokeskin Pouch. As you may know, an item is placed inside such a pouch can only be removed by the person who put it in to begin with."

The next item was rather less remarkable, but also fairly practical – a small box full of stonelike masses that those who had studied their Potions book recognized as bezoars.

"Now, you may scoff at this choice, but those of you who have the misfortune to be afflicted with love potions, pranks, or other such, keep in mind that the bezoar is a very useful item to have around, especially if one has no time to brew a potion – not that Professor Snape would let you keep anything you made in class anyway."

After that was something mundane…a full set of Chocolate Frog Cards, all the finest first editions, of course.

And piece de resistance – a gold and leather bound book that was simply titled _Book of Spells, _and a piece of paper next to it authorizing the bearer to check the book out from the Restricted Section for the remainder of the year.

Now, some of the students began to whisper among themselves at this last item, as they wondered that the big deal was with a simple book, and why _that_ was being offered as a prize. Some of the savvier students stayed quiet, however, waiting for the other shoe to drop, a sight that made Quirrell smile.

"You may be wondering, 'why has Professor Quirrell made a textbook' a possible holiday gift, especially if it is one that has to be returned by the end of the year?" the Defense Professor asked mildly, with more than one head nodding. "Well then, everyone, stand up, please."

The students did so, though some were puzzled as to why – but their puzzlement faded as he flipped the book open towards the end, and the world _changed _around them with a thrum of magic and a swirl of light.

The classroom was gone.

They were standing now on a platform – one of a series that descended into darkness.

"_Lumos Maxima_," Quirrell spoke, flicking his wand as an orb of bright light shot from his wand to hang in the air, cutting through the gloom.

"As you can see, this rare first edition of Miranda Goshawk's _Book of Spells_ is more than just a simple textbook," the Defense Professor said to his stunned pupils. "It is a powerfully enchanted item, capable of conjuring various objects – or rooms – as you see here – to provide a safe environment for practicing spells from _Lumos_ to _Expecto Patronum_. It is a living text too – with even the doodles and other embellishments added by previous users of the book added its contents for others to use in the future."

"P-Professor Quirrell," came the voice of Pansy Parkinson, who was now eying the tome greedily. "These are all…very remarkable things, but how will you choose who gets them?"

"Ah, a good question, Parkinson," the turbaned man replied, his gaze panning the room. "Naturally, as a Professor, it would be amiss of me to just give these away without some sort of test. But before you groan, know that this is not a written exam – and that it is, of course, strictly optional. It will be a practical challenge, with those who wish to obtain one of these items traversing a dungeon conjured by the book itself. Inside, there will be traps, puzzles, monsters – all of which you have learned about in class – and you will have the chance to put your skills to the test in the crucible of battle."

His voice trailed off, his tone almost reverent, and he could see his pupils swallowing. Some were nervous, some frightened – and some lusted for the objects in question – he could see it in their eyes.

"The one who demonstrates the best performance in each year – who completes the challenges fastest and most thoroughly, will have the right to choose one of my gifts, as well as winning twenty points for his or her House. I will of course allow the first years to have the first pick, given that older students will likely have had other opportunities to gain such items in the past. Still, I am not an uncharitable man. And so I offer an additional gift: every person who attempts my challenge – and you may do so only once and individually – will be given a House point for having the courage to face their fears. Every person who successfully completes it will earn four more, _regardless of performance_."

He smiled, a cold, hard smile that some found disturbing.

"After all, there is power, and then there are those too weak to seek it. In any case, those who wish to prove themselves will have two weeks to do so. The winner will be selected the day before the Winter Holidays begin."

* * *

><p>The Castle was abuzz with news of Quirrell's Christmas Challenge – the nature of it, the wondrous prizes that could be won, the chance for students to test their skills against Dark Creatures and challenges, as opposed to just knowing what they would do in theory – and of course, the House Points that the Defense Professor had practically offered for the taking, for anyone who attempted his Challenge.<p>

Shinji, of course, was sorely tempted by the prizes – especially the tome, which would offer a multitude of possibilities for training and a wealth of knowledge – but given that he knew Quirrell was likely a Dark Wizard after the Philosopher's Stone, he was suspicious of the man's motives. After all, the way he had structured the Challenge, giving points for participation and completion, meant that there would be huge amounts of House pressure for everyone to take the Challenge.

Which meant of course that Quirrell would be able to see how potential threats like the Stone Cutters reacted under pressure, particularly the Boy-Who-Lived. It was, Shinji had to admit, very cunning – and he gave the man credit, as despite knowing what the man was likely up to, he was tempted anyway. Tempted not just by the prizes, but the recognition…

…because if he _was_ to participate, he would try to win. To do so would tarnish his image of being a young but powerful practitioner of witchcraft from the East.

But Matou Shinji had other things to occupy his time – things such as finally exploring the Room of Hidden Things, which Sokaris had informed him about as her "present" to him. The boy didn't know exactly what to feel about it.

Certainly he was curious as to exactly what the Room of Hidden Things was – he imagined it was likely some sort of small cubbyhole, where people had left extremely valuable things over the years, but he was also surprised that she had given him anything. After all, magi did not generally like to share, and while they understood each other, he hadn't thought he had done anything worthy of a gift – unless this was something like a quest reward for doing research for her.

And well, he was somewhat embarrassed that he had not yet given any thought as to what to give his acquaintances for the holidays, when Sokaris, who was the last person he would describe as sociable, clearly had.

So, that night, after asking Hillard if he was going to compete in Quirrell's challenge – to which the prefect had responded that he wasn't quite sure under the circumstances – Shinji had asked the older boy to let him join him on patrol for a bit.

When asked why, Shinji had said he needed to take care of something important – something related to Sokaris.

Hillard had frowned at that, though he had indeed allowed Shinji to accompany him, even disillusioning him.

"With you going out and doing things for Sokaris, Granger might take this the wrong way, you know," the prefect had quipped. "Especially after you've been spending time with her lately."

"…why?" Shinji had asked, only for Robert Hillard to shake his head and sigh at the younger boy's innocence.

"You'll know when you're older, Matou," was all the prefect had said, going through his usual routine to make the younger Stone Cutter less noticeable. "Girls are complicated, that's all I'm going to say. Especially those like Penny and Granger."

'_Penny…as in Penelope?'_ Shinji had thought, wondering if there had been more to the relationship between the two prefects than met the eye. But it wasn't really his business, and so he let that train of thought lapse, as he was once more _Disillusioned_, his form changing color and texture to match his surroundings.

He'd broken off from Hillard's patrol path when they reached the sixth floor, proceeding up the stairs to the Seventh Floor, where he'd turned left and stopped cold in front of a ridiculous tapestry that – true to Sokaris' words – depicted a practitioner of witchcraft in the middle of a group of eight trolls in frilly pink tutus and ballet shoes. They were dancing _en pointe, _even…even if some of them were hitting the hapless wizard with their clubs.

Truly the name Barnabas the Barmy was appropriate.

But goggling at the idiocy of ancient practitioners wasn't his purpose for coming here, and so he followed Sokaris' instructions, walking past the wall across from the tapestry three times, thinking of a place to hide something.

To his lack of surprise, a door appeared, with Shinji swallowing and opening it to reveal…

"_Sugoi…"_

…a cavernous room larger than even the Great Hall, resembling nothing so much as a cathedral with its vaulted ceiling, intricately carved support pillars around which mountains of items had been gathered, large, high-set windows that gave the illusion of it being day outside.

This, Shinji had not expected. Certainly he didn't think everything in here was valuable, but if even a fraction was…

…he could be looking at being financially set for the rest of his life, provided he managed to transport the wealth out of this room.

Still, his surprise didn't keep him from shutting the door – which vanished behind him – and walking forward into the room. It wouldn't do for someone else to find this place by accident. No, not at all, not before he'd seen if there was anything useful he could take – and any curios he could use as Christmas gifts.

He strode forward, giving the room and its contents a cursory once-over as he passed by.

Here were stacks of broken and damaged furniture – mostly chairs, tables, & various cabinets all haphazardly piled on top of each other, perhaps to hide spell or potion damage.

Here and there were tottering piles of books – thousands upon thousands of volumes, and a few bookcases crammed full to bursting. Some looked as old as they undoubtedly were. Others were new, almost untouched. There were textbooks here, books in Old English that must date back to the Founding of Hogwarts, storybooks and more. And he had a feeling some of these books had either been stolen, banned, or otherwise bad to be caught with in the distant past, though a pretty pale green volume entitled _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ caught his eye as relatively innocuous.

He paused to leaf through it briefly, finding that it was apparently a collection of what were essentially fairy tales but for young witches. Though of course, the main difference was that while in Muggle fairy tales, magic tended to lie at the root of the hero or heroine's troubles – magic was a tool of both hero and villain in these stories. That, and interestingly enough, the witches in these tales seemed more active about seeking their fortunes than most fairy-tale heroines.

Shinji thought that Granger might like this book, with her interest everything magical, and so held onto it. The others he'd have to look at in more detail, and he didn't want to sort through textbooks now.

'_What are…those?' _he thought, seeing a mound of slingshots with wings, some with enough life left in them to hover halfheartedly over the mountains of other forbidden items. _'And why would anyone make such things?'_

Though the fact that there were toys meant for these practitioners suggested that they had a society all of their own, on top of what he'd already seen from the slang and the ignorance of mundane culture. It stood to reason that if they didn't interact with what they called Muggles, they had other ways of fulfilling their basic needs for entertainment.

There were of course things that were simply garbage: chipped bottles of congealed potions, broken, oversized eggshells, skeletons of animals he didn't recognize (none that looked human, thankfully), corked bottles whose contents still shimmered evilly, several rusting swords, and what looked like stacks of Frisbees with…fangs.

There were curiosities, like an enormous stuffed troll that he thought he'd send to the Weasley Twins' home for Christmas if he could get enough owls here somehow – maybe if he levitated everything he needed to the entrance (with or without Sokaris' help) and had the owls come get them? There were cages of various shapes and sizes, busts of ancient practitioners, statues all about, even broomsticks that looked far fatter and squatter than those they had used in flying class.

And then there were useful goods – mountains of ornate chests, trunks, and pouches – including some mokeskin pouches. Hats and cloaks that still seemed in serviceable condition, including a few black scaly coats that resembled wyvern skin, mountains upon mountains of jewels and gold (he made a note to fill a chest with jewels for the Second Owner of Fuyuki, as he thought it would show Rin how foolish she had been to laugh in his face).

Pyramids of cauldrons of all metals, many suits of armor – with at least one looking like it had been designed for a House Elf, given the size and proportions of it – trophies, elegant blades and pots and trays of silver. Tapestries of rich, lush fabrics.

A banjo. A set of dominoes. Masks of all shapes, sizes, colors, and makes. A great stone basin. Sculptures of magical beasts – some roaring or eying him as if alive.

Trophies.

Stacks of other miscellany objects that looked like feebly blinking tops, aerials, or other such. Perhaps some knives and other goods were in there – he hadn't had time to look in detail and would need to some back at a later date to look more closely.

And an artifact he could tell was enchanted, as prana lingered on it, even to his weak senses: a tarnished diadem that once had been a pure silver, housed in a wooden case lined with blue velvet. It was shaped like an eagle with intricately worked silver wings, with a blue sapphire the size of his thumb serving as the body. And etched upon its surface was the famous motto of Ravenclaw House: "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."

…this, Shinji thought, had to be the most valuable single item in the entirety of the room, which in itself was a mountain of treasures that staggered the imagination (albeit with much junk mixed in). Especially because, since he spent much of his free time channeling prana into ofuda, he could feel a pulse of something like it in this.

He knew now that there was no way he could hope to repay Sokaris for the information about this room, or to give her a gift that would impress her with its material value – not if she already knew about this room. Which meant what he got her would have to be personal. From the heart, as it were, instead of a mere trifle.

After all, Shinji was not an ungrateful lad, and something of this _staggering_ magnitude required something just as great in exchange.

His thoughts about being used, about Sokaris hiding secrets, he tabled, since if this was the result, he couldn't exactly complain. He _would_ keep in mind that the girl had a penchant for understatement, and a very odd sense of humor.

He'd need to think about what to give Potter as well, since he didn't think the Boy-Who-Lived would be won over by a trinket from the room, though some of those coats had looked rather nice.

As for the Diadem, he wasn't sure. Certainly, he could sell it for a fortune, or perhaps win great fame if this was an ancient artifact from the Founders, but as he pondered, a scene from _Mahoutokoro _sprung unbidden to his mind: a conversation between Matsuo Hijiri and Aozaki Touko on the latter's habit of buying odd items.

'_Would…Touko-san like this?'_

He rather thought she might, actually. Perhaps enough to take him as an apprentice come the summer. Maybe, if it was interesting enough. All he knew was he didn't know what it was capable of, so he wasn't going to try it out himself.

Thus did Matou Shinji close the case containing the diadem, securing the fastening on the box and placing a sealing ofuda on the latch to make sure it wouldn't just fall open in transit. And with that under one arm and _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ under the other, he left the Room of Hidden Things for a quick visit to the Owlery.


	18. Dungeons and Demons

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18.<strong> Dungeons and Demons

Matou Shinji panted as he tucked himself close to an earthen wall, trying to get control of his breath as he lit up his surroundings with a quickly cast _Lumos._ That had been entirely too close – he'd barely escaped the latest danger of this challenge. But that was no surprise – he'd almost failed the challenge from the very start, when a pack of vicious dogs, glowing with an eerie silver light, had melted out of the darkness mere meters away from his position.

They'd lunged at him, trying to tear out his throat – he'd only survived because his _ofuda_ had responded to his will, with one such intercepting the spectral canines mid-leap and erupting into a burst of pure white light that caused them to shriek in pain – and vanish.

Shinji, of course, had been knocked on his arse by the explosion, his head ringing with how close it had been – though he had the presence of mind to cast a hurried _Lumos _to provide some illumination so he could see just where he'd materialized.

A central square of a village. Or the blackened, fire-gutted ruins of what used to be one, with the still-smoking skeletal remnants of houses and shops – a haunting reminder of what awaited him if he failed on this cold, moonless night.

Next to him was a small chest, containing three emergency Portkeys – in the form of fuzzy green mittens - as well as his mission briefing.

_Welcome to the Defense against the Dark Arts Dungeon Challenge. The creator of the_ Book of Spells and Professor Quirinus Quirrell _remind you that they take no responsibility for accidental death, maiming or insanity during the course of this exercise. This simulation is designed to prepare you for an emergency situation in which you are the only available responder and has been tailored to your year and skill level. Your actions will be judged and weighed throughout and your final score will be based on your ability to remain on mission._

_This is a Seek & Preserve Scenario, set in the last days of the war against You-Know-Who._

_You are the first wizard to arrive after a disastrous raid by Death Eaters, whose role is to rescue survivors – a group of 18 Squibs that have sought refuge in the caverns a quarter-mile directly west of the village. You have been provided with three Portkeys to facilitate their evacuation, though the chest also serves as a Portkey, if necessary. Each Portkey will activate thirty seconds after being touched simultaneously by six or more survivors, or if one uses the incantation of "Portus." _

_Your final score will be based primarily on the number of living survivors._

_The location is Scotland. The current time is midnight. Level of Danger: Unknown. You have three hours. _

…not a lot of time, that.

Not with caverns to search, Dark Creatures on the loose, and survivors to round up. Though at the very least, the ambush by Gytrashes - spectral creatures who straddled the line between life and death. As some of the most voracious predators known to wizard kind, they fed on fear and life alike, and dwelt in the shadows, where they lurked unseen until it was too late.

Two or three bites would have killed him, no matter where – so it was reasonable to write off the village as a place to search, as anyone without magic would have died. For anyone _with_ magic, however, keeping them at bay was as simple as using the Wand-Lighting Charm – and a light that was bright or close enough could wipe them from existence.

Though to stand one's ground and use _Lumos _in that situation required…

'…_not panicking and keeping a clear head,' _Shinji recalled, thinking back to what the theme of the Professor's lectures had been. _'Clever bastard…'_

And of course, while one was using the Wand-Lighting Charm – a continuous spell - one couldn't exactly cast other spells. So if a moving source of light were to draw other creatures…well, one would have very little time to extinguish the light and deal with them.

'…_I'd better move quickly then,' _he had thought, pocketing the Portkey mittens in his pants pocket, quickly glancing at a still-standing street-sign and heading west, thinking that the faster he was out of town the better.

…and hoping he wouldn't have to use too many ofuda. They had the potential to be more powerful than his cast spells, yes, but he had a limited stock.

Each one he used was one he'd have to make _again_, and he'd worked hard in his spare time to restock what he'd lost after Halloween.

At first, all had seemed quiet, with Shinji keeping an eye on the edge of the light his wand cast, looking for any signs of more Gytrashes. As he walked, the only sounds present were the thudding of his heartbeat and the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel of the street, both maddeningly loud in the silence.

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

_Crunch. Crunch. Cru-crunch._

Shinji had whirled at the sound of what seemed like a second set of footsteps, glowing wand levelled, but all he saw was a grey chunk of rubble. A perfectly understandable thing to see in the ruins of the village, considering how all of the buildings were mere skeletons of themselves, bare of wooden planks, stones, or bricks.

Maybe he was hearing things in his nervousness, he'd thought, as he turned west again and continued onwards.

_Crunch. Cru-crunch. Crunch._

_Cru-crunch. Crunch. Cru—_

Once more Shinji whirled, seeing just another grey chunk of rubble on the road. He sighed and started to turn around again, but froze mid-turn.

'_Wait…that piece looks _exactly the same_ as the last.'_

There was something off about this. Something very off, Shinji had thought, as he turned west again, dousing his wand for a moment, while readying an _ofuda_ just in case his suspicions panned out.

He stepped forward.

_Crunch._

He took another step.

_Crunch_.

He took a third and—

_Cru-crunch._

—cried out "Flipendo", his wand pointing behind him, vaguely towards where the piece of rubble would have been relative to him _had it been following him and keeping the same distance_.

His reward had been a blood-curdling shriek of pain, as the Pogrebin – as the foot-tall demon was called, with its hairy body and an oversized grey head – was thrown back, a mouth full of sharp, jagged teeth revealing themselves as the creature sprang to attack—

_Boom!_

—and was blown to smithereens by an explosive _ofuda, _the explosion echoing in the ruins, with one of the skeletal buildings collapsing.

Shinji had sighed and shaken his head. While yes, a Pogrebin could be defeated easily enough – with simple hexes or even kicks, if he hadn't noticed it until later, he might have found himself in a bad state. After all, its modus operandi was to tail a human, with its very aura slowly eroding the human's confidence, forcing the victim to feel a sense of despair and futility will wash over the Human. And when a victim was overcome – then and only then the Pogrebin would attack and devour the hapless person.

But since he hadn't _known _it was a Pogrebin at the time, he hadn't been about to let such a being get within reach of his body, lest it was something more dangerous.

He would have to keep a close eye on his surroundings, just in case that was not the only one. That, and his actions had probably drawn attention. Had he been too hasty? Should he have waited until he wasn't in the open before exposing and killing it?

Suddenly, Shinji was much less sure.

Casting _Lumos_ once again, he'd hurried onwards, redoubling his speed. He still hadn't made it to the cavern yet, after all, hadn't even made it out of the village, at that, and already fifteen minutes had elapsed.

Fifteen agonizingly long minutes, with every nerve on edge, wondering where the next attack would come from, what seemingly innocuous thing would turn out to be dangerous. And so far, only two sets of enemies, though here and there he saw glints of silver that indicated Gytrashes tracking him – something he was not comfortable with.

Should he conjure blue fire in one of his hands to illuminate his path and keep his wand ready for more offensive spells, if needed? Should he use his wand for illumination and keep his _ofuda_ ready? It was hard to say, though so far he leaned towards the latter.

Just in case, since it was his _ofuda_ which had seen him through his first real battle.

And for a while, everything had seemed ok. The Gytrashes were at bay, no more Pogrebins were trailing him, and…

'…_do I hear…buzzing?'_

A buzzing sound at the edge of his perception, one that – if he wasn't mistaken – had begun to get louder and louder.

"_Nox. Incendio!"_ he shouted, his light at the tip of his wand going dark, replaced by a gout of orange and red flames a moment later, which he shot towards the buzzing, as multiple flaming _things _approached, screeching as their beetle-like wings caught fire, along with their coarse, black hair.

_Doxies. _

Normally considered mere pests of the wizarding world,the Biting Fairies, as they were sometimes called, could be quite an annoyance, as they liked light and sound and noise – and were unfortunately blessed with a double row of venomous teeth, which could make one quite ill.

And not just one Doxy.

This…was a swarm. A swarm of angry, biting things that were now _on fire_.

'_Kuso. Kuso. Kuso. Kuso.'_

He needed to get to the caves. Now.

So Shinji ran, as fast as his legs would take him, occasionally dropping a pair of ofuda behind him, the first of which would then erupt in a flash of light about fifteen seconds after he moved away, stunning a number of Doxies - which then were roasted to a crisp with a followup fireball.

_Whump-Boom!_

_Whump-Boom!_

_Whump-Boom!_

But the more he attacked the swarm, the more it grew, until the stars were blotted out by a mass of these false fairies and the sound of buzzing came from everywhere.

_Whump-Boom!_

Shinji's breathing had begun to go out of control as he ran and ran and ran, his feet covering ground as quickly as he could. It wasn't working. It wasn't as if there was some Doxy Queen he could slay, some heart of the swarm he could pacify to stop them – they didn't work like that. At least, he didn't think so. If he had some Doxycide though – but well, he didn't, so that was a moot point.

The Matou boy was seriously beginning to regret not focusing more of his attention on Defense against the Dark Arts instead of Potions and Charms, since not knowing all the details of these creatures was proving to be a very bad thing indeed.

Where was it?

Where was the cave?

Where was the—_**AHHHHHHHH!**_

The ground gave way beneath Shinji's feet, and down he fell. Down, down, down, with cold, damp air rushing past him and him just barely managing to keep hold of his wand as – _FLUMP_ – with a funny, muffled sort of thump he landed on something soft.

He felt the urge to puke as he doubled over, fighting to keep his breath under control, his free hand gripping some kind of…tentacle? No, it was a dark colored vine, the light from his wand told him, from the plant that had broken his fall.

How far had he fallen? He couldn't even see the hole above him, though there _was_ a crude series of rungs carved into the wall.

At least he couldn't hear the buzzing anymore. The doxies must not come down here, for whatever reason.

He was safe.

…or so he thought until he tried to move, only to find that the vines had already twisted, snakelike around his ankles, and now were moving towards his arms.

'_Oh. Shit.'_

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What was this? What was this? Professor Sprout had mentioned a rare plant that liked to strangle whatever it touched, a plant that unfortunately resembled a common houseplant that practitioners of witchcraft were apparently fond of—flitterblooms or some such.

_What was it?_

But he couldn't remember, not out of breath from running as he had been, so he did the only thing that he could think to do.

Kill it with fire.

"_Incendio!" _Shinji roared, a jet of flame shooting forth from his wand towards the dark tangled vines and body of the plant.

And it worked. In a matter of seconds, Shinji had felt it loosening its grip as it cringed away from the light and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself from his body, and he was able to pull free.

Which was how he'd found himself in his present situation, leaning against the wall in one of the tunnels leading away from the area protected by what he _now_ remembered was Devil's Snare, peering down into the gloom for any signs of human presence.

He patted himself to make sure the emergency Portkeys were there – thankfully, they were—and breathed a sigh of relief. How had he thought this was going to be easy? Sure, some had said that this was hardly a challenge, since _Neville Longbottom_ currently held the top spot on the first year leaderboard, but then others had mentioned that the scenario was very mean-spirited, often leaving someone no option but to fail.

Or so it seemed. In some of those situations where people had complained that they had been forced to fight Death Eaters or other such, because they couldn't reach the front door of a building otherwise, Shinji had often wondered why _they didn't just unlock the back door or sneak out a window. _After all, wasn't that what _Alohomora_ was for in the first place?

But he remembered most practitioners of witchcraft were supposed to be notoriously bad at logic, so he hadn't said anything at the time. After all, the more people who failed, the greater his own chance at winning the tome would be…right?

Of course, that was provided that he _won_, his prospects for which seemed fairly dim at the moment, not with his performance so far.

Still, Matou Shinji would not be Matou Shinji if he didn't at least try. His pride would allow him no less, so with wand held lightly in the palm of his hand, a number of ofuda prepared for use if he needed them, and emergency portkeys in his pockets, the boy continued on through the gloom.

But it wasn't gloomy long, as the boy saw a dim, flickering light in the distance.

As he walked on, he found the light grew brighter, until he emerged from the narrow, dank tunnel into a grand chamber, from which six tunnels diverged, if one included the tunnel down which he'd come. The only difference was that while his archway had permitted easy entry and exit, each of the other five was blocked by a wall of flame, which doubled as the illumination of the room.

He put out his wand with a whispered _Nox_ to get a better look – and to prepare himself to use spells if necessary.

From what he could see, the flames were erupting from a grille set into the ground, over which roamed scaly lizards glowing red with inner heat.

Salamanders, these were, aptly named for the elemental spirits of fire, and they both fed and fed on the fire that birthed them. For now, they didn't seem to have noticed his arrival, but that could change easily enough. They were never docile creatures at the best of times, and if disturbed tended to swarm those that disturbed them.

As for the room itself, it was large – about ten meters across – but otherwise utterly unremarkable, aside from being dominated by an altar of some kind in the very center of the room. The bare walls were a smooth, even grey, and the floor too was smooth and bare, aside from some greyish-brown stones the size of his head.

The altar itself was about waist high and two meters across, with a crimson pentacle inscribed in the center, each of the five points aligning with an irregular depression on the altar that corresponded to one of the five flaming paths.

A puzzle then.

At least he hoped so. Obviously, his most powerful offensive abilities – his explosive _ofuda_—would probably not be of much use against salamanders, which dwelled in – thrived in – fire. For that matter, ofuda in general tended to have a nasty weakness to flames, so he'd have to rely on his wand skills, which he had to concede were not the best, given what he'd been spending his time on.

And from what he remembered, even if he managed to get rid of one salamander…

'_Another one will take its place, as long as the fire stays lit.'_

However, if that fire were to be extinguished, with even its embers put out, the salamanders birthed by it would die instantly. Somehow, he didn't think _Aguamenti _alonewould suffice, but he wanted to see if such a direct approach had been warded against. He was sure it had, but figured that he could probably hold off a small group of salamanders for a short time, if that was what it took.

Just to be safe though, he'd try the furthest archway from him, just so he had room to move if things went badly.

"_Aguamenti,_" he called out, a powerful jet of water hissing into steam as it shot from his wand into the flames warding the passage, with some dripping onto the red-hot grille below.

That hiss doubled and redoubled as the salamanders that had been luxuriating in the heat of the fire noticed his efforts and began moving towards him, shuffling out of the fire with eyes and scales aglow with inner heat.

'_Shit.'_

Gritting his teeth, he kept the spell up, feeling it leech away at his prana reserves as slowly—ever so slowly—the fire began to flicker out. Alas, just as the fire began to grow dim, his spell puttered out, and streams of multicolored flames shot forth from what looked like a line of jeweled boulders just beyond the wall of fire to rekindle the warding flame.

Obviously, the direct approach was not going to work…and the salamanders were coming, swarming to the left of the great altar as they made their way closer to him.

'_Ok. I can still do this. I just can't let them touch me.'_

Just like the Doxies.

How very…_inconvenient_.

There were many things he wanted to say about the situation he found himself in, but he knew he had to concentrate. What was he going to do? He couldn't put out the fire with water, he didn't have any offensive ice spells (and he was very much regretting not learning the Freezing Charm from the Weasleys after the Troll Incident), and angry salamanders were now after his blood.

There was nothing in this room he could use to defend himself. Just some grey boulders lining the—

That was it.

—if he couldn't quench the salamanders, he'd smother them. He had the rocks – and he knew _this _charm. After all, the Levitation Charm had been the very first spell Flitwick had taught them.

So with a cry of _"Wingardium Leviosa", _one of the grey stones rose into the air, directed by his wand, only to come crashing down on the head of one of the salamanders, with Shinji rewarded by the sound of a death gurgle – and the other salamanders speeding up.

Ok, that wasn't working either.

Think, Matou, think.

The puzzle. That was probably the key. To stop the fire, he had to solve the puzzle.

So he thought as he kept moving, feet scampering to staying ahead of the salamanders, though—

"Ack!"

—his robe snagging on a stone did not help.

Hurriedly, the boy doffed the robe, letting it slip from his shoulders and tossing that to the salamanders, who paused as the robe caught fire, basking in the warmth of burning spider silk.

'_This had better be worth it.'_

The altar – it had indentations. Indentations which would fit…the jeweled boulders that spat fire.

Boulders which _weren't really boulders_.

No, they weren't boulders – they were fire crabs, those large turtle-like creatures native to Fiji which shot flames from their rear ends when attacked to stop pursuers in their tracks. Creatures whose shells would fit the indentations well, if they were turned upside down.

He'd need to do two things: to lower the flames on each of the passageways enough to get line of sight on a Fire Crab, and then levitate that crab to the altar.

…all while staying ahead of the salamanders.

"_Aguamenti!" _he cried again, keeping his wand trained on the flaming passageway as he ran past it, shooting more and more water towards it until the flame began to flicker, exposing the line of jeweled boulders, at which point he ceased shooting.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!" _he cried then, with one of the now-confirmed fire crabs squealing as he brought it through the air to immediately in front of him (with the tail facing away from him), turned it upside down, and ran to the altar, just ahead of the salamanders. With the thing squirming and writhing its legs helplessly, while shooting a jet of flame away from him, he plugged it into the appropriate indentation—

—as the warding fire rather abruptly went out, with the salamanders birthed by that blaze collapsing to the ground, dead.

Shinji collapsed to the ground from the exertion, taking deep, full breaths. That had been too close, but at least he knew the trick now.

He took a few minutes to recover, then repeated his strategy on each passageway, using the Water-Making charm to lower the flames and get a visual on the Fire Crabs, then Levitating a Crab out to his position, all the while staying ahead of a swarm of angry salamanders.

One by one, the fires died, until at last the final passageway was unsealed, and the center of the altar folded open, with the five colored jets of flame from the upside-down fire crabs igniting a white-hot blaze that was almost blinding after the dim firelight Shinji had been used to.

But now, the way was clear, even if over an hour had passed, and with him being harried and pushed and frazzled, he hadn't yet rescued even a single Squib. He would make a point of asking if everyone's challenge was this bad later, _after_ he got through this mess.

There were no enemies down the first corridor, just a series of locked doors that opened readily enough with _Alohomora._ Well, it made sense. These were Squibs – they _couldn't _magically lock a door.

And what waited for him at the first corridor's end was—

'—_Blood.'_

Fresh paint coated the surrounding walls, and the floor was lined with something wet. The smell of mold and earth usually present was masked by an ever more overwhelming stench. A thin layer of blood squished under Shinji's feet, its metallic tang sharp in the air. No – what appeared to be red paint is in fact blood – perhaps human, perhaps otherwise.

And in the middle of the room were two bodies. The body of a hairy Pogrebin, its throat slashed open by a discarded silver knife in the corner of the room, and the body of a man, pale – too pale – breathing fast and sweating, with a face and leg badly mauled. Tending to his wounds, or trying to, was a slender, blonde woman about thirty years old, and a little girl who spun around at the door opening.

A little girl, whose blonde hair glowed in the firelight. She was pretty, with the sweetness characteristic of youth, but her silvery-grey eyes held the light of maturity. She was wearing some kind of blouse that was quite out of fashion these days, but he couldn't really comment on it, as it was soaked in blood.

"Thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "Please – you've come from the Ministry, right? You're not with the bad men? Can you help Papa?"

Shinji swallowed. He had not expected this scene of death.

"What happened?" he asked, rushing over to look at the man.

"We came here when the bad men attacked our village. There was a wizard who lived here, who said he'd fight them off. But he never came back. Papa—papa was attacked by the Pogrebin, and his wound isn't closing. Please sir, help us. Can you get us to St. Mungo's?"

Shinji was quite keenly aware of the emergency Portkeys he had been issued almost _burning_ in his pockets. This would seem to be the very sort situation they were for – but if these people were so badly off, he was sure there were others as badly off. And he only had three.

There were 18 Squibs - if each group of three or maybe four had someone who couldn't move, that could be very bad, especially if he then had to escort the rest back to the village square.

It would be different if there was at least one or two other wand-users, but with a group of what were effectively mundanes, this was bad.

"Let me have a look," Shinji said, moving to the man's side. Now that the woman was not obscuring his way, he could see a jagged tear in the man's abdomen, as if the thing had leapt and savaged him. That was where the blood was coming from. If the wound wasn't staunched soon, he'd bleed out.

'_Here goes nothing.'_

"Seal!" Shinji commanded, with one of his _ofuda_ flying from a pocket to cover the man's wound – sticking and holding the sites together. It wasn't healing, no, nor a permanent repair, but it would stop blood from coming out the torn vessels, as surely as anything else. "There are other people here – they could be hurt too."

But how could he lift the person? Sure, he could use his wand, but then he'd be unable to use other spells…_oh, of course._

_Those_ ofuda.

The ofuda of separation he'd used on the train to keep his trunk light, by isolating the weight of what was in the trunk from the outside. Could he do the same with a person's skin?

'_Well…can't hurt. He'll die anyway if I don't.'_

And so he let fly a second ofuda – which, thankfully, made the man nearly weightless.

"I'll get your Papa out," he said. And he would too – his points in the mission rested on how many living survivors he managed to rescue. "Ma'am – is your husband?" he asked the woman. The silvery-haired woman who had been tending the wounded man nodded.

"Yes. Are you giving us a Portkey to St. Mungo's now?"

"In a moment. There are other people who need to be saved – I can't leave them behind. I've sealed your husband's wound and made him lighter with a charm. You should be able to carry him now.

"…can you just levitate him, sir? He's lost a lot of blood, and I think he hit his head."

Well…that wasn't good news.

"Yes. I can do that," Shinji responded, trying not to snap. It really wouldn't do to lose his composure. It wasn't these people's fault that they were upset – they weren't even real to begin with. It was Quirrell's fault. It was all Quirrell's fault. "_Wingardium Leviosa. _Come with me."

At least he was getting a good amount of practice with his Levitation charm.

The second corridor contained more locked doors, which meant he had to place the man down on the ground as he moved forward, swept the area for any threats, and double back. This room had four people – two uninjured, one banged and scraped up, and a man with a leg twisted into a position he knew it shouldn't be in, and only one arm.

Old accident, the others had said.

'_Well, this makes seven.'_

Quickly saying what reassurances he could, he retrieved one of the mittens and handed it to the group, instructing them to touch it, and wishing them all good luck. Half a minute later, they were gone, with Shinji now free to move about again.

Almost two hours now. He had to pick up the pace.

The third corridor had only one person down it – this time surrounded by a defensive ring of Fire Crabs, which had apparently burnt a Pogrebin to ashes.

"Leave me alone!" the man was shrieking. "You'll not take me, knave! My bejeweled friends will save me, won't you, lads? Won't you?"

Shinji almost turned around and left him behind in disgust, but figured that since he'd come down the way already, he might as well just get this over with.

Using a Sealing _ofuda_ he shut the man up, before proceeding to levitate him and bring the indignant, flailing survivor with him. Frankly, he didn't have time to talk the man down, and he wasn't about to just leave points behind. Damnit, he'd come this far – he was going to _win_.

The fourth …well, down that way, he'd heard a high-pitched cackle, and had thought perhaps it was another mad survivor, only to find a short, meter-tall creature with a pointed face and glowing red eyes that shot him in the shoulder with two dart.

'_Ack….' _Shinji groaned, staggering from the sudden explosion of pain and nearly dropping the man he was levitating as the creature came forward. "_Shi-ne_!"

_Erkling._

An elfish creatures, with a particular affinity for the taste of children, whose cackle was supposedly entrancing to children. Of course, it was also quite vulnerable to concussive force, as was demonstrated when an explosive ofuda blasted its face apart with extreme prejudice.

Shinji had been quite wary as he went down the rest of the hallway, dispatching two more of these Erklings – before he came yet again to a locked door. He dropped the man unceremoniously to the ground, casting a _Verdimillious_ Charm to disorient him – an orb of glowing green energy shooting from the wand-tip and exploding in a blinding flash of emerald light as the man clutched at his eyes, while green lightning played over his form, paralyzing him momentarily.

Long enough for Shinji to unlock the door and walk in.

Six people were huddled here, all uninjured – all very grateful for rescue. He handed over their neighbor and a Portkey, and was quite happy when they vanished.

Fourteen down, four to go.

And only one more corridor.

There was nothing too remarkable down this one – except for the fact that two of the four people in the final room had apparently been bitten by a venomous spider some time ago and were beginning to show some bad effects.

He was just about to hand over the last Portkey and move out when he heard a distant c_rack! _from the main room.

'…_wait…this is all 18 Squibs,'_ he thought to himself_, _wondering what the new sound was – whether it was something bad.

But it couldn't be too bad – Quirrell had promised that whatever they faced was beatable by a student of their skill level, and who knew – maybe it was the wizard that the little girl in the first room had mentioned. If it was, he wouldn't turn down extra points, but he wanted to be sure he completed his main objective, so he handed over the last portkey and activated it manually, before proceeding back into the main room, wand drawn.

_Whump-Boom!_

The moment he stepped into the main chamber, he was blinded by an explosion of pure white light and thrown back down the tunnel by a blast of concussive force, his head spinning from the shock.

'_What the…'_

_Whump-Boom!_

But he didn't have time to think or recover, as his body was thrown along the ground again.

_Whump-Boom!_

And again.

"Expelliarmus!" came a cry from…what was clearly a hostile entity – who was using his skills against him, as his wand went flying away.

But he couldn't see. He was disoriented. His ears were ringing.

"Seal!" the other cried, with a piece of paper clamping over Shinji's mouth, unable to be dislodged.

'_No…I can't…it can't end here.'_

But it seemed it would.

"Ah, you're the one who helped the Squibs get away, I see," a dark cloaked figure intoned as his boots clipped with military precision across the floor. "Dealing with that other wizard took time, but I suppose it was not all for naught. After all, a hostage from the Ministry is far more valuable than a band of useless Squibs."

He leaned down so that Shinji could see the eerie silver mask he wore, grabbing the arm of the weak, still disoriented boy, about to Apparate away when—

'_Bind.'_

—one last ofuda fluttered out from Shinji's sleeve and stuck to his assailant, who froze, unable to move – unable to use magic – and toppled over.

Shinji squirmed out from under his attacker, stumbling to his feet and ripping both his wand and the other's from the enemy's hand. Vindictively, he kicked the other person in the crotch – several times – and it felt good.

And what was he to do now? Obviously the scenario wasn't over yet, since he had yet to escape the area himself – or get rid of this other person, and he didn't want to risk using his ofuda – not when something of fire might burn away the binding. He wasn't about to take the other all the way back to the village Portkey either, not when he didn't know what still lurked on the surface.

So he did what he'd been doing all day, levitating the person with his wand and walking down the passage to the patch of Devil's Snare, where he dropped the enemy unceremoniously, watching as the vines constricted, snaked around, choked the life out of the enemy, dislodging the mask to reveal—

—the horrified face of Matou Shinji looking at him as if he'd seen a monster.

* * *

><p>With the killing of his assailant – a Death Eater who had stayed behind to deal with resistance – according to the scenario's debriefing, the scenario drew to a close, with the ofuda sealing his mouth fading away as the caverns and all else that had been conjured did – including the second wand in his hand.<p>

"Well…that was…impressive," Quirrell had said, the Defense Professor marking down how the boy had done. "You not only managed to rescue all of the Squibs, but defeated the Death Eater. Unfortunate that you could not take him in for questioning, which would have granted the most points, but you did very well indeed."

"Those skills," Shinji stated flatly, remembering what the enemy had used against him, shaking – whether in anger or fatigue or such he didn't know. "How did it…"

"The _Book of Spells_ has a rather remarkable set of enchantments," Quirrell noted drily, speaking as if Shinji hadn't paid attention in class. "The ability to take spells people jot in it and add it to the book for future reference, for one. In the simulations, I have used this to take the abilities a student uses and empower a doppelganger. After all, a Dark Wizard is far more difficult to face than a creature, and who is more difficult to face than yourself – an enemy who knows exactly what tactics you favor and will use them against you."

Shinji forced his expression into a semblance of composure, taking a deep breath, and then another.

"…with all due respect, Professor, how do you expect any student to beat something like that?" he asked, half curious, half very annoyed to have been blown across a room several times and sealed.

"I don't," Quirrel replied, quite honestly as he eyed the blue-haired boy. "Much as I do not expect anyone to complete all elements of the primary objective – you managing to rescue all of the Squibs was an outcome I did not expect, for example. I expect people to make hard choices, to see what they will do when they face a scenario in which complete victory is possible in theory, but is outside the bounds of practicality. As an example, had you rescued any of the Squibs and survived, that would have been enough to complete the scenario, if not a very high scoring method of doing so."

"…and the so-called Death Eater?"

"An enemy that would test both your resolve and whether you understood your limits, if you managed to fully succeed in your primary objective," the Defense Professor said coolly. "Leaving once you have rescued the individuals or obtained the items you were tasked with is a perfectly valid approach to the challenge. However, few choose that path, and of those who chose to face the Doppelganger, only you and Longbottom have managed to prevail. You through unexpected skills, and Longbottom through unexpected knowledge of Herbology."

"…Herbology?"

"When mature, the cry of a Mandragora can be fatal to any person who hears it," Quirrell explained, finishing up his notes. "It was simply unfortunate that he had ear protection and his opponent did not. In any case, Matou, fine work. I will announce the winner on the last day before Christmas break. Dismissed."

With that, Shinji had nodded and headed back to Ravenclaw Tower, where as it turned out, everyone else was talking about the various challenges that they had faced. Each challenge had been different – some had been simple fetch quests, with one having to retrieve various items from a cluttered house, only to face creatures that had infested it; some had faced stealth missions in which they had to sneak past much superior foes – like a security troll – to retrieve a locket or gemstone – and escape with it; some had had to leap from platform to platform to reach and retrieve a golden cup, solving a number of puzzles and riddles to move forward; some had had to escort individuals of varying skill through a dungeon, or out of a burning village.

By far the most interest was given to Hermione Granger's attempt, in which she had apparently had to escort a man named Gilderoy Lockhart through something called the Temple of Doom – a place filled with traps and monsters – to reclaim the lost treasure of Ravenclaw or some such. Apparently, Lockhart was something of a celebrity to other practitioners of witchcraft, an adventurer famous for his heroism and his encounters with dark creatures. Thus, many of the other first year girls would have swooned for a chance to escort him, but…Granger's mission had been nothing short of disaster.

For one thing, the Lockhart person had a tendency to Apparate into groups of Dark Creatures, or simply to skip over the Temple's various traps, leaving Hermione to do all the hard work of getting past it on her own. One memorable trap had involved a set of pressure-sensitive tiles, with the brunette forced to walk only on tiles indicated by glowing runes – which changed at a moment's notice. Another had been a corridor lined with dart launchers that she had had to crawl past, along with pit traps she had to vault – something decidedly unsafe. There had been the idol whose riddle she had had to answer to be granted the diadem.

And then there had been the giant rolling ball of stone which had been triggered after she and Lockhart had obtained the item – a somewhat cliché but no less dangerous trap that had chased them all the way back to the entrance, with her having to push Lockhart out of its way into a side corridor with a muttered _Flipendo _to avoid him getting crushed.

After all, ensuring his survival was her primary objective, with leaving the temple with the diadem as a close second.

At the end, she had thought she had succeeded, until Lockhart had mentioned how it was a pity that she couldn't be allowed to leave the temple with the diadem. After all, if she was the one holding it, people might think she was the one who had conquered the temple's challenges and retrieved Ravenclaw's Lost Treasure, not him. And that just wouldn't do.

He had disarmed her then, and Apparated out, diadem in hand.

This had ended the scenario, leaving Hermione extremely upset – after all, why would someone in authority betray her trust like that? A famous adventurer, no less? It wasn't like anyone actually stole other people's credit in the professional realm. That…would be terrible! Like cheating!

When she had confronted Professor Quirrell about this, the Defense Professor had been utterly unsympathetic. He had mentioned that with Lockhart's callous actions during the mission – often leaving her behind and putting himself in danger - Hermione should have already deprived him of his wand, as Lockhart himself had been a threat to the mission. And of course, at the end, while he was talking, Hermione could very well have disarmed and disabled him – but she had not.

Thus, while she had completed her primary task of keeping him alive, she had failed to leave with the diadem, so her final score was less than it could have been. She _did_ get a total of five House points, however – one for attempting the mission, and four for completing it, so she was happy enough, but the last encounter rankled.

Hearing how badly everyone else had done, Shinji…actually felt a lot better, both about his performance, and his chance for winning the tome. He already felt uneasy about all the skills he'd been forced to use to complete that scenario. If, for all his work, he had ended up as merely average, he probably would have gone into the Room of Hidden Things and screamed, since it would have meant Quirrell would have seen what he could do for _nothing._

But if was hearing correctly, the two current contenders for the rank of first in his class were himself and Neville Longbottom – which surprised him. He'd have thought a Slytherin might do well, but Potter hadn't competed yet, and while Malfoy had completed his, he wasn't talking about what happened. Some people joked that he had probably told the Death Eater that he too was a loyal servant of the Dark Lord, though others thought he had just turned tail and run – though the latter would not have been a bad move, from what Quirrell had said.

All in all, he considered himself mostly satisfied. The rest was now out of his hands.

* * *

><p>As for the problem of transporting gifts from the Room of Hidden Things to the Owlery, Shinji had done a couple of things. First, he'd gone back to the room and finished picking out what he wanted to give people at home.<p>

A suit of House-Elf Armor for Emiya Shirou, the boy who wanted to be a hero.

A very large chest full of large rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones for Tohsaka Rin, the Second Owner of Fuyuki, along with a genuine wyvern skeleton, in the hope that Rin would jump to conclusions and somehow think that Shinji had slain a wyvern and gifted her a portion of the treasure he'd gained in return. Well, maybe not, but there was no harm in trying.

A stuffed troll – not a toy, but an actual troll that had been slain and stuffed – for the Weasley Family, in commemoration of having fought besides Fred and George Weasley - and their victory.

A silver self-cleaning, self-refilling tea set and a mokeskin pouch each for his _sister_ and his grandfather (who he would have to ask for a case of high quality green tea for Professor Flitwick – and maybe a Tanuki statue for Hillard, in remembrance of his…brains and bravery).

For Professor Snape, a gold cauldron and a very nice looking set of silver knives.

For Draco Malfoy, a glitter-bomb.

For Aozaki Touko (aside from the diadem he'd mailed off earlier), an intricate armillary sphere and astronomical clock of exquisite craftsmanship, given her love of artifacts.

And for himself, of course, a number of mokeskin pouches stuffed with gold, jewels, and a few interesting books.

He had slapped weight-reduction (weight separation) ofuda upon what items he'd needed to, before levitating them to the door of the Room of Hidden Things one by one and moving them outside, where he was met by a House Elf, who he had asked to take most of the items to the Owlery.

After all, Hogwarts allowed its students to make indiscriminate use of its owls for whatever mailing needs they had.

…this policy would be revisited after the Great Matou Gifting Incident of 1991.


	19. Gifts and Curses

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 19.<strong> _Gifts and Curses_

Using owls to carry the post was something of a time-honored tradition in most of the wizarding world – at least in those areas where it was thought acceptable to have an owl. Due to their natural affinity to magic, expressed primarily through their ability to locate witches and wizards without an address (though not Muggles – save if an owl belonged to one – which only served to widen the divide between the magical and the non-magical), as well as their natural camouflage and near silent flight, they were highly valued in this role, as it eliminated the need for wizards to do something as demeaning as spending their lives delivering packages.

Of course, in areas like India, where owls were a symbol of death, or South America, where owls were somewhat rarer, other birds were the courier of choice, falcons or macaws, for example. And while bats had been considered for postal duty at one point in time, their unfortunate tendency to urinate in flight had led to a number of complaints, leading to the reliance on owls.

Though even owl post had its shortcomings, such as the mess they left with their droppings and shed feathers (the reason that the British Ministry had switched to using enchanted aeroplanes for interdepartmental memos) and difficulties with international flight or stormy weather. And of course, as demonstrated by Matou Shinji's use of the Hogwarts School Owls to send a massive number of gifts around the world, leaving not a single school owl for others to use until they returned (and subsequently forcing anyone who had a letter to send – and didn't have an owl of their own – to have a teacher drop it off at the Hogsmeade Post Office for delivery), when there were no owls available, the mail simply would not run.

It didn't help that the weather had gotten rather foul and nasty some days the gifts had been sent out, meaning that Owl Post was temporarily grounded, nor that owls did not take kindly to being forced to travel internationally _while carrying immensely heavy/bulky parcels_ to addresses they did not recognize. Now, in these cases, homing in on a wizard's magic could work just as well – and perhaps Shinji could have been forgiven for thinking this extended to those with powers in general – but there _were_ no other witches or wizards in Fuyuki, regardless of what the neighborhood children sometimes said about Tohsaka Rin.

And after running into an unexpected winter storm, where the poor owls were buffeted by subzero gusts, with some nearly getting killed due to tennis-ball sized hailstones, the owls had made an emergency diversion to _Mahoutokoro_ via the Owl relay station in Dalian, China.

That city, with its long history of being used by foreign powers for its ports, was accustomed to strange occurrences in winter – though to be fair, they had not expected a flurry of feathers and droppings to rain down from the sky during a blizzard, particularly of not those of birds that weren't even native to the area. Still, they'd seen odder things, and the parliament of owls was able to make it to the relay station unmolested, where at the request of the operator, a portal had opened to Mahoutokoro, with the exhausted birds dropping off their many, many parcels in the mail sorting area, before they collapsed from fatigue. The staff had sprung into action, getting the owls to the infirmary and getting the parcels repackaged for ground delivery, moving or placing any new weight-reduction ofuda as necessary.

Given that the mail was not going to wizards or witches, and would require feet on the ground, the mail would not be continuing from the hidden city by Owl Post, but by the kitsune-run division of FedEx Japan, via a long-standing agreement to preserve the masquerade, with any extra shipping charges to be billed to the original sender.

In this case, given the common origin of all these owls and packages – the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – and the fact that the School provided Owl Post services to its students and staff free of charge, the bill would be sent to the Headmaster.

Needless to say, the eventual receipt of this…unexpected expense…did not make Albus Dumbledore particularly happy when it – and Hogwarts' owls – finally returned to the School.

* * *

><p>After a long, roundabout bit of travel, the packages – and the letters accompanying them – did make it safely to Fuyuki, arriving early in the morning, before the sun went up, with the Kitsune efficiently disabling the weight-reduction ofuda once the deliveries had been made. It was standard operating procedure for deliveries for parcels bound for what had initially been listed as "Muggle" addresses, even if the presence of bounded fields around a residence made it obvious that a location was not quite mundane.<p>

The concept of C.Y.A. – or Cover Your Ass – to use the longstanding American term, was not exactly limited to that particular country – or even to the Muggle World.

Thus, when the unfortunate Tohsaka Rin opened her door that morning, there were two extremely large packages addressed to her sitting in her front yard. Or well, half-sitting half-sprawling in the case of one of them, which was quite irregular – and very, very bumpy.

And not only large – they were _heavy._

'_What the heck is in these?!'_

Had Kotomine placed an order for magical equipment using her money or something?

No…from the shipping labels, the packages had been sent by…_Matou Shinji?!_ The fact that the contents had been described as 'Christmas presents' was also a cause for much shock, given that she didn't think he was the type to send anyone a present.

Maybe his studies as a practitioner of Witchcraft had made him more bearable?

There was nothing to do but to open the packages – after all, she had to make sure this wasn't a prank of some kind before bringing them into her house.

The smaller one seemed most promising, since she didn't know what would happen when she opened the big one, and she tore open the wrapping to expose a large wooden chest, its wood lacquered and bound with gold, and which looked for all the world like a stereotypical "treasure chest" – with a letter on top.

Roughly translated, it read the following:

_To Tohsaka Rin, Second Owner of Fuyuki,_

_As Christmas is coming, I thought it only appropriate to send you a humble token of my appreciation, personally acquired after a harsh trial by combat and intensive study of my Art. _

_Your Humble Servant,_

_Matou Shinji_

. . .

. . .

"What."

Now, Tohsaka Rin could certainly be surprised, but either Shinji was being horribly sarcastic in this missive (as he was anything _but_ humble), or something had drastically changed. She supposed she'd have to open the chest to see, she thought, as its contents would likely reveal his intentions.

After a quick examination of the chest for any strange magic – which she wouldn't put past him. Not detecting any, she undid the fastenings, grunting as she noted the sheer weight of the lid, and threw it open—only to freeze on the spot, her jaw falling open at the sight of rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones of considerable size and unusual quality.

For over a minute, the Second Owner of Fuyuki stood frozen in shock as she looked at the contents of the chest.

Knowing gemstone prices as she did, given its necessity for her more potent spells – the main reason for her usual complaint that magecraft drained her bank account – she calculated that this "humble token of appreciation" had to be worth _billions_ of yen, if the entire chest was indeed filled with gemstones.

…and it was.

Her mouth went dry, eyes widening at this. This…well, she didn't know how big the Matou accounts were, but surely something of this magnitude would have beggared even that old family, something that she didn't think Matou Zouken would be very fond of.

So…maybe he'd come by the wealth legitimately?

After all, the letter had mentioned a trial by combat, and it was true that there were bounties on dangerous individuals – or creatures – sometimes. That was how Enforcers made a living, after all, on top of the meagre salaries the Clock Tower normally paid them, though a bounty of this level only came along every once in a long while – every decade or so.

It shook her though, as something was like was far more valuable than one of the obligation presents people sometimes got others because they had to. Something like this was usually given either to close friends or lov–

Refusing to complete the thought, she decided she'd better get the packages indoors before she did anything further – and set about making it so, a task requiring both self-reinforcement as well as using basic gravity manipulation to lower the weight of first the chest and then the skeleton.

It wasn't something she had cause to use very often – she'd considered it mostly a useful training exercise – but without pushing herself to use both of these, there was no way she could have moved the chest.

As for the other package – well, it wouldn't easily fit through the door, so she opened it to reveal that the extreme lumpiness was the result of what was within being coiled up. She frowned, feeling for strange magics once again, but finding none – though under the wrapping paper, the contents felt almost like _bones._

She slowly uncoiled the thing, noting the almost serpentine form it took – and goggled, as whatever it was, was around 8 meters in length.

There were very few creatures in the world like that today – had Matou killed a magical anaconda or something? Was he in South America?

But she dragged it inside, down to her basement, without thinking about it too much. She'd know when she opened it, after all, revealing—

Skeletal legs, extending from main trunk of the body.

And more shockingly—wings.

The sort of which a dragon might have, but which, since the skeleton wasn't leaking prana all over the place, belonged instead to a wyvern.

A wyvern – a very dangerous creature with a degree of magic resistance and aggressiveness, largely sharing a true dragon's form, even it lacked the latter's immense power as the pinnacle of the Phantasmal Species.

And Matou…Matou had mentioned a…trial by combat?

Fortunately for Tohsaka Rin, her scream of "WHAT THE HECK?!" was hidden from the outside world by the thick walls of her basement and quite excellent insulation.

* * *

><p>Given his background, it was perhaps understandable that the weary Emiya Kiritsugu was rather suspicious of unsolicited packages arriving at his door, especially one from a Matou. Given their status as one of the three founding families of the Fuyuki Holy Grail War, and his unfortunate interactions with two members of the family during that time – with one dying at the war's end, and one that he had personally tortured for information on his wife's location.<p>

As such, anything from the son of the latter had to be considered suspect.

So, he'd taken the package to his workshop and examined it thoroughly, making sure that there were no hidden spells – or more mundane traps such as explosives, anthrax or the like – within. As for whether the Magus Killer was relieved or disappointed to know that there was nothing of the sort within, just an innocuous letter which talked of how strange it was to be studying abroad again and wishing his adopted son a Merry Christmas, along with…a suit of armor.

A fully articulated suit of burnished bronze plate at that, complete with plumed helmet and a fully functional backsword – but not one sized or designed for a human.

After all, it stood only a meter tall, with the proportions decidedly off from even those of a child. The helmet was pointed, as if to accommodate a long nose; the eyes pieces were positioned oddly, and there were holes in the side around the level of the ear, with rather long flanges serving as ear guards – which, while certainly stopping cuts from above, would do nothing against arrows from the side.

And perhaps most oddly, the design seemed based on medieval traditions, it wasn't made of steel. While ancient cultures certainly had used molded bronze breastplates – which were quite effective against arrows, during the so-called Dark Ages, there had been a switch to mail due to its greater effectiveness against iron melee weapons.

This armor though…

…it seemed to have been reinforced beyond what normal bronze could have handled, and nicks and cuts here and there – some of which had been repaired better than others – seemed to indicate that this suit had once been used. That, as well as the lack of decoration, seemed to indicate that this was not merely ceremonial armor.

But why would the scion of Matou send his adopted son a gift – much less what was undoubtedly an expensive suit of armor? What was the Matou clan's game?

From what he knew, the clan already had an heir – having adopted Tohsaka Tokiomi's second daughter for that purpose—with their original bloodline having grown thin. Matou Kariya, who had faced in the Grail War, hadn't qualified to become head of house, and Matou Byakuya was head in name only. But if Matou Shinji was sending magically enhanced items from the United Kingdom, then perhaps there was something his investigation reports hadn't picked up on.

It was regretful, but if the Matou were going to try to influence Shirou, he'd have to begin training the boy a little more seriously. He hadn't wanted to pass on his craft – had resisted, in fact, because in the end, the power to change the world only led to despair, but it seemed he might have to.

…even if his adopted son had seemed so heart-wrenchingly happy when Kiritsugu finally allowed him to see the gift the Matou boy had given him, saying it was the first one he'd ever gotten from a friend.

* * *

><p>The reaction to the packages at the Matou household was more subdued than the extreme shock the Tohsaka heiress had suffered, or the onset of sudden paranoia experienced by Emiya Kiritsugu, but then the members of the Matou family knew where Shinji had gone off to, and the gifts he had picked out—a silver self-cleaning, self-refilling tea set and two mokeskin pouchs— were not exactly extravagant.<p>

Zouken didn't much care if the boy sent him anything, and had directed Byakuya to obtain the two items that Shinji had asked for – the box of green tea and a small tanuki statue. Byakuya proceeded to do so, though looking at the enchanted tea-set, he was struck by a fresh wave of grief and nostalgia that he thought he had put far behind him.

His late wife had once done special things too, once filled his heart with laughter – but after she'd given birth to Shinji—who turned out not to be a magus—Zouken had been most displeased, and had simply killed her for her "failure" to breed a usable heir. She had asked for a second chance, saying that there was never a guarantee of inheritance, but the old man had denied her even that much, simply throwing her to the worms.

In the years since, Byakuya had gotten rid of every memento of her, as the pain had been too much – even before the torture by Emiya Kiritsugu—which had broken him for good. Every memento save one – her mystic code – a wand of willow and unicorn hair, about 10 inches long.

Because his son had cost him his wife, he'd thrown the boy away as useless, choosing instead to do as Matou Zouken wished and train the adopted Tohsaka girl as heir, so to numb everything. But the boy had surprised everyone, and now he sent…gifts.

No. He couldn't hold on to the past any longer. Shinji had escaped the Matou house, like Kariya once had. Hopefully the boy knew better than to return, for there was nothing for him here but pain.

The case of green tea and the Tanuki statue would be easy enough to find, and to those Byakuya would add something of his own – the wand he had no use for.

It was time to let go, for good.

Sakura's reaction was less complex. She was just surprised – and a little touched. She'd felt sorry that she had had to lie to Shinji for so many years, had been trained in secret to become the heiress of the Matou clan, making him useless. She'd watched him, pitying how he had studied so long for something that would never be – and then one day he'd found out and had broken.

Frankly, Sakura wouldn't have blamed Shinji if he hated her. He was right to blame her. It _was_ her fault for hiding it from him, for accepting his kindness and not telling him the truth.

When he'd left, he'd said nothing.

…and yet now, he'd gotten something…for her. A pouch that would let her keep whatever she wanted secret from the prying eyes of others.

It was…unexpected, to say the least.

* * *

><p>As for Aozaki Touko, the gift of the armillary sphere and astronomical clock were easily enough delivered, and with the receipt of those, she decided to revise the reply she originally had had in mind when an owl had delivered her an ancient diadem laden with layers upon layers of deadly curses.<p>

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, back in the Wizarding Village of Ottery St Catchpole, the owls fortunate enough to be tasked with a domestic delivery had dropped off the stuffed troll in the front yard of the Burrow – the home of the Weasley Family—before the eyes of a gaping Ginny Weasley.<p>

It was a massive thing, dwarfing the little redheaded girl at a height of 4 meters tall, its ugly visage quite terrifying to behold – especially with its club raised above its head as if to slay whoever had been foolish enough to bother it.

It was no stuffed toy, this. It was an actual troll that had been slain and stuffed as a trophy – or perhaps as a specimen for future study. Difficult to say when the person who had slain this particular troll was long dead and gone himself now, but—

"Mom, you have to come see this!"

—regardless, such an item left quite an impression on those who received it, as could be seen by how Molly Weasley opened the door of the Burrow and just _stopped _when she caught sight of the troll, her mouth closing with an audible click.

Her mind flashed through a number of reasons for why such a thing would be sitting in her front yard, settling on what she feared most – that Fred and George had been part of some nonsense – or were pulling yet another trick. She really wondered how she'd gone wrong as a mother sometimes – William, Charlie, and Percy had all ended up perfectly respectable, but the Twins?

They took after their uncles Fabian and Gideon – brave and mischievous, but ultimately dying before their time. She hoped the same would not happen to her boys.

No mother in the world would wish true harm to their children, no matter how exasperated they made her. But sometimes, like now, with this…troll…in her yard, they could really test her patience.

"I swear, if this is another one of those boys' pranks, I'll—"

"Mom, there's a note," Ginny interrupted, pointing to a letter stuck to the troll's leg, just out of the little girl's reach.

Not out of Molly's though, as she took the letter, noted that it was addressed to the Weasley Family, and opened it.

It read thus:

_To the Weasley Family,_

_You should be very proud. Your sons are true examples of the spirit of Gryffindor, playful, but also brave beyond measure, as they fought – and won - against a Mountain Troll for the sake of the students of Hogwarts. This stuffed troll is a memento of that night, a reminder of how they stood firm in the face of danger._

_To Fred and George,_

_We were enemies once because of your pranks, but we became friends and brothers in arms after we risked our lives against that troll, fighting when no one else could. Since you mentioned your Mum complained about your pranking, I am sending this to your family – showing them what more you do, what you – and we – faced to protect the other students by the side of the Boy-Who-Lived. Actually, what I really wanted was to send you the body of the troll we killed, but since we burned it to bits and blew its head off, this one will have to do instead._

_Matou Shinji,_

_Stone Cutter Society_

Molly couldn't really believe the words she was reading.

Her sons…had fought a troll? Along with this person, and the Boy-Who-Lived? How had one even gotten into the Castle? What was Dumbledore doing that the teachers weren't first on scene – that _her_ _sons_ had had to fight to protect the other students? Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest place in all of Magical Britain!

She would have to have a word with Dumbledore, great wizard or not – and with Fred and George, who hadn't mentioned any of this to her. They really were too much like Fabian and Gideon for their own good, even though they were only thirteen.

They were growing up so fast, and growing wild – but even so, there was something fierce in them. Something honorable, something good. They had _stopped a troll_, and not for fun, if the letter writer meant what he said. And given what must have been a very expensive delivery, she didn't think he was joking.

Even Molly had to admit to feeling a sense of pride that _her sons_ had done what was right – stood up for people in danger when no one else could. That was proof enough that she'd raised them right, even if they hadn't been model students like her other sons, Ronald aside.

"Mom, what does it say?"

"It says…that your brothers did a very brave thing, Ginny. That they helped the Boy-Who-Lived stop a troll from hurting other students."

* * *

><p>Professor Snape was appreciative enough of his gift, since a skilled potioneer did enjoy the use of worthy tools.<p>

And Draco Malfoy…well, suffice it to say that no one enjoyed a glitter-bomb going off in their face, or being cursed to sparkle in the sun (alongside Crabbe and Goyle), but he held his tongue, as he didn't know who the gift was from. It had unfortunately only been labelled as coming from 'A Secret Admirer', and the package had self-destructed after the glitter shower had gone off. For days, people would be talking about the incident as Malfoy and company's "time to shine", something that was particularly irksome.

And Albus Dumbledore – well, when the Hogwarts Owls finally returned from the Far East, bearing with them the bill for medical treatment, as well as shipping fees billed to the school, the Headmaster of Hogwarts had cradled his head in his hands. Technically, Matou Shinji was within his rights to do so, given that school policy did say that students could use the school-provided owls for whatever postal needs they had, but he was determined to prevent such a thing from happening again.

Thus, he issued a quick policy change – one that would be read aloud at breakfast.

Use of Hogwarts' owls for domestic post would continue to be free of charge and accessible at any time, but international shipments would be subject to a few restrictions. Namely, unless given special approval from a teacher, students would only be allowed to send letters or small parcels internationally, unless using their personal owls.

His headache only worsened after a letter from Molly Weasley asking why her sons had had to fight a troll, since one should never have gotten into the castle in the first place. He had been forced to reply that how the Troll had gotten in was still under investigation, but that her sons had never truly been in danger, as teachers would have arrived in a matter of minutes. She had not been completely satisfied with that, but she'd trusted the man, so she let it go.

As for poor Shinji, when the owls returned from Mahoutokoro, they had indeed contained the items he'd asked his grandfather for, as well a small package – and a letter from a most unexpected person.

The letter of course, was from Aozaki Touko, and was not perhaps, the most charming thing he'd ever read:

_Dear blue-haired brat,_

_While I originally thought the gift of a diadem was an assassination attempt, given several of the curses that had been laid upon it, I thought better of it after receiving your other presents. After all, few relics of that age and power are unprotected – I'm just surprised you didn't try using it yourself, since few young boys can resist the temptation of power. _

_In any case, you've given me something very _interesting_ to look into and an incident to laugh about, so thank you for that. As for the book you bought, it's since gone to press and is now being considered for addition to the curriculum _here_. You're welcome, by the way. Toroi-kun generally hates dealing with people, but he owes me a favor or three._

_Aozaki Touko_

_Visiting Professor of Ancient Runes, Mahoutokoro School of Magic_

_P.S. Boarding schools get a little cranky if you monopolize their resources, even if it's not explicitly forbidden. Use a little common sense, unlike some of your fellow practitioners of witchcraft._

Well…at least he knew the presents had made it to their destination, even if the diadem had been cursed – and now he was very glad that his potential teacher _hadn't_ actually considered it an assassination attempt. Somehow Shinji thought that such a thing might end badly for everyone involved – but mostly him.

Powerful magi had a tendency not to die when one killed them, with his grandfather serving as an excellent example of this.

As for the items from home, two of them were the tea and statue as requested, but the other was…

'…_a wand and a note.'_

The note was simple. It read only: "_This belonged to your mother. Now it is yours. – Matou Byakuya_"

The wand itself was also a simple thing – a dark, banded willow, about 10 inches long, and rather supple – almost the polar opposite of his own.

But it was that simple thing – a simple length of willow - that had him retreating to the kitchens after classes that day, as he didn't really feel like dealing with most people. Another reminder of the past – of his mother. A reminder that had struck him hard.

To be honest, he hadn't quite believed Flitwick when the man had said that his mother had gone to Hogwarts, since he'd always thought of his mother as useless – a woman who was destined to die. To think that he was the same as her – that she had had some kind of talent and had had been in the very same house…where did that leave him?

And if Zouken had killed her, why had that been so? Why didn't she have her wand with her? Had she gone to talk to the Archmagus knowing she was going to die, leaving this behind?

Why had she done so? The more he thought about it, the more he didn't know – the more didn't make sense. Unless of course, she had thought Zouken was going to kill him for being useless and had taken the monster's ire on herself, in which case she was braver than anyone else he knew.

…or was he weaker, since he craved the approval of the crowds, wished to be seen as great?

He didn't _know_ and that was perhaps the hardest thing of all.

In the absence of concrete information, his mind raced, spun, filled in the gaps with wild speculation – and worst part was that he realized he was doing this, but couldn't stop. His mind wouldn't stop, not with the confirmation of his mother's power from that…waste of space of a man…who had lied to him his entire life, and had even hid _this_ from him.

Why?

Why?

_Why?_

He sat alone at one of the kitchen tables, shaking and breathing hard as he looked at the two wands before him – his cherry and crest worm wand, and his mother's willow wand – fingers on his temples.

And that was how Sokaris found him, with the poor boy for once not paying attention to the rest of the world, barely noticing as she sat down next to him.

"Are you unwell, Matou Shinji?" she asked, noting that his body language – even his physiological state—screamed distress.

Shinji almost jumped at the sound of her voice – at the fact that someone had seen him so weak—but just slumped as he recognized it was Sokaris. She'd seen him break down before, once, so it wasn't like he had to pretend with her.

"…you could say that," he admitted, shaking his head.

"I surmise this is related to your mother," she said, as if it were a matter of fact, with Shinji twitching as he looked up, blue eyes meeting purple.

"How…did you…"

"There has only been one other occurrence when you have been driven to such a level of distress," the purple-haired girl noted almost…clinically. "When Professor Flitwick mentioned your mother. And as you have a second wand here, the conclusion was obvious."

"I see," Shinji replied, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I see. You really do like to watch people, don't you?"

"Observation is the best way to learn another's habits," the other answered, which in effect was admitting that she did. "People often dissembling when they speak, but it is more difficult to do so consistently in action. Slytherin House is a good example of this."

"Or yourself?" he challenged, though there wasn't too much bite in it.

"I do not outright lie if I can avoid it, Matou Shinji," the girl said reproachfully.

"Because you prefer misdirection and concealment," Shinji noted heavily, shaking his head.

"Like you."

"Well…yes," the Boy-From-the-East was forced to admit, a little heavily. "Like me."

The two were silent for a few minutes, with Sokaris not wanting to press Shinji about his issues, and Shinji not wanting to share too much, but the boy did want to be able to talk to someone about things. He imagined it was probably what Hermione felt as well, which made him feel an odd stab of sympathy for the girl, even as he forced his breathing to go deep and even so he could gain some semblance – some veneer of control.

"I received a package from…my family today," he began, closing his eyes. "It contained this."

He pointed to the willow wand, which looked so very different from his own.

"Your mother's wand."

"Yes," Shinji acknowledged.

"This upsets you a great deal."

Shinji only nodded.

"Until today, I didn't know for sure my mother had actually been a witch," he admitted for the first time, making sure there was no one around. "She died when I was young, and I grew up thinking…"

"…you were useless?"

Shinji blinked, shock momentarily on his face as he wondered how she'd known that – but he shook his head a moment later. Given what he'd been saying, he supposed it must have been obvious.

"Yes."

"Several factors played into this conclusion. Your words and actions when your mother was referenced. Your support of the Boy-Who-Lived. Your desire for recognition," she explained, not unkindly, as she studied his expression. "Do you believe this to be true?"

"I've…made my own path," he began, but faltered, looking down at the wand. "Or at least…I thought I had. But…" And thus was his greatest fear… "Am I just repeating what my mother did before me?"

"Your mother's choices were her own," Sokaris replied after some time. "Just as yours are your own, Matou Shinji. You are not bound by the past."

There was almost a sense of wistfulness in the way she spoke, which Shinji found odd. Sometimes, he thought she seemed much older than he. But she always seemed to understand him, and never really criticized.

"…thank you for that, I guess," he said, nodding.

"You are welcome, Matou Shinji," Sokaris answered, inclining her head fractionally. "I was simply acting as a…friend…would, given the circumstances."

"…is that how you think of me, Sokaris?" Shinji asked, genuinely curious – both about the words she had used, and the hesitation. "As a friend?"

Given the way she spoke, Shinji had wondered if Sokaris didn't interact much with others simply because she really didn't like attachment—because she didn't actually care for people all that much. She seemed focused on her own objectives, her own thoughts often enough that he didn't really question it, but sometimes…

"Indeed, Matou Shinji," Sokaris said, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face, though it vanished as quickly as it came. "You were my first friend."

"…and what about Granger? Didn't you meet her first?" Shinji asked, remembering how violently Hermione had reacted to seeing them together – to learning that Sokaris had done any pranking at all – had herself broken down at the news. "On the train?"

"A first acquaintance is not necessarily a first friend, Matou Shinji," Sokaris corrected quietly. "I respect Hermione Granger's intelligence, certainly, but her inflexibility of thought is troublesome."

"Inflexibility of thought with regards to say…artifacts created by Renkinjutsu?" the Boy from the East questioned, eyes narrowing now.

"Only partially," the purple-haired girl replied. "Other things as well, such as how to brew potions or other such. One often finds that people, and experience, not basic textbooks, are the better sources of information about current events. But more so, the ability to act on new information."

"Like in the scenarios, you mean."

Sokaris simply nodded.

"The Defense Professor was quite clever in devising such a challenge," she observed, shaking her head with…was it admiration and disgust? "Due to greed and pride, he gains valuable information on any potential problem students, with the only useful prize being the _Book of Spells."_

"…you didn't participate, did you?" Shinji asked, knowing what the answer would likely be.

"Tell me, did you find the Room of Hidden Things?" the would-be Alchemist answered with a question.

"I did," he said, remembering the mountains of treasure insid— "...I see your point."

"Indeed."

He looked down at the wands on the table, cherry and willow, wondering what to do. There was still the matter of his debt to her – one that he knew a simple gift could not repay, but…

"Sokaris…I have something for you," Shinji said quickly, before he lost his nerve. He was forcing himself, he knew it, but if he let himself stop…

"Yes?"

He picked up the willow wand that had been his mother's, and pro-offered it to Sokaris.

"This is the only thing I have remaining from my mother," he said shakily, his body trembling. "The only thing I have of great value." Emotionally, if not financially. "I…I want you to have it."

For the first time, he thought he saw Sokaris look…surprised. Well, as close to it as he'd seen.

"Are you certain, Matou Shinji?" she asked quietly. "Remembering the past is—"

"I have nothing else I can offer that could match what you told me. What you've given me," Shinji replied, swallowing as he tried to conceal his nervousness. Would she take the wand? She already had one, so it wasn't as if it was a practical gift. But it was…a personal one. "Sokaris, we're...friends, right?"

"I have said as much.."

"Then let me give you something important to me – as you shared something important to you," said the Boy-from-the-East. "I know you have something you want to accomplish here at Hogwarts. I will help you, if you will help me. Let this wand be a token of how serious I am. About helping you. As a friend, that is."

"I am…honored to hear that," Sokaris replied, taking the wand, her fingers brushing against his palm. She examined it for a moment, giving it an experimental swish. Interestingly, some red sparks shot from the end of it, signifying compatibility. "My thanks, Matou Shinji."

"It was…" Well…it wasn't nothing, really, and he didn't want to say it was so. "It was..."

Really, it was his past he was giving her, with his hands beginning to tremble as he thought about it – all the things he had never told anyone, didn't really trust anyone with – until she took the hand that had held the wand in one of hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I know," she said quietly, and in that moment, he rather thought she did.

* * *

><p>And then the day came when the winners of Quirrell's Dungeon Challenge would be revealed, with all of the students who had participated at all gathered in the Great Hall to hear the announcement. In the days between, there had been a good deal more gossip about the challenges – who had faced what, and who the contenders might be for the title of best-of-year.<p>

For the first years – which Shinji was most concerned about – the three contenders were, in no particular order, Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, and of course, himself.

He knew the specifics of his own scenario, of course, and a bit about Longbottom's. Enough to know that they had been very different missions, though both had involved something of fight with a doppelganger – which he imagined that Longbottom had not had as much difficulty with, if the death inflicted by a Mandragora's scream was an instant one.

And as Shinji had found out by asking the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry's challenge had been rather different from either his or Neville's. For one, it hadn't been a rescue mission _or_ a sneak and retrieval mission. It had been a stealth _sabotage_ mission, with Potter tasked with infiltrating the stronghold of a group of Dark Wizards and preventing them from completing a ritual to resurrect their fallen Lord.

A rather personal mission, in other words, given who Harry was – and what he remembered.

And of course, since the mission was considered high priority, Harry had been allowed to choose two virtual allies from the first years who had completed their own challenges, as their doppelgangers would be the ones accompanying him.

His options had been Neville Longbottom, Shinji Matou, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Daphne Greengrass, and Fay Dunbar.

Of these, Harry's first choice had been rather obvious. After all, who would he have chosen aside from fellow Stone Cutter Shinji Matou? His friend was a powerful wizard, he knew, and Harry knew that Shinji had done quite well – better than almost anyone else. Not entirely surprising, given the performance against the troll, though he wondered how much Shinji had shown in his mission.

If Quirrell really was working for Lord Voldemort, and was using this as a way to measure the capabilities of his opponents – then that could be quite bad.

As for Harry's other choice, he had waffled between Daphne Greengrass and Neville Longbottom. He'd worked with Daphne pretty often now, and they were about as close as one could get to being friends in Slytherin – plus, he knew she was fast and could be surprisingly sneaky. He knew very little about Longbottom, only that he wasn't melting cauldrons anymore since he'd been paired with Dunbar, and that Professor Quirrell had mentioned that he had held the highest score on the challenge when he completed it.

Malfoy had not been an option for obvious reasons, and somehow, he hadn't gotten the impression that the others were good at sneaking.

So in the end, he'd gone with Greengrass.

The scenario had warped them into a clearing outside the entrance to a cave, with each of them apparently being given an invisibility cloak and an emergency Portkey. Their mission was simple – infiltrate the cave system, navigate to the room where the ritual was being prepared, disrupt it, and escape, with a secondary objective of defeating the leader of the Dark Wizard band if possible.

And so they'd done so.

In retrospect, the initial approach had gone a bit too smoothly. Nothing had accosted them on the way into the cave – an old thing of limestone, with stalagmites and stalactites unfortunately slowing their travel. The routes were patrolled by a number of Dark Wizards in black robes and silver masks – Death Eaters, from what Harry had heard, but as long as he kept quiet, they didn't seem to be too aware of his approach.

On the other hand, they could hardly risk lighting up their wands, given that the cavern was mostly dark, save for torches that had been lit every so often.

…unfortunately, this did mean they had bumped into at least one sleeping wizard, but the Shinji-doppelganger had simply used his ofuda to paralyze the man.

Aside from that, however, all had been quiet—

—until Daphne's doppelganger had stepped on something, and had been caught in the arm by a sharp dart, with the girl's flesh rotting away from the point of contact – until the Shinji doppelganger had sealed the wound, stopping the decay from progressing much further. Unfortunately, it seemed that whatever she had stepped on had also triggered an alarm, as the Dark Wizards had raised an alarm, actively using flash-bang ofuda as a way to disorient hidden foes and try to flush them out.

Aside from his utter shock in seeing this, as he had thought this was the Eastern equivalent of runes, which western wizards didn't really truck with, it was…surprisingly effective. It didn't immediately betray their location like _Homenum Revelio, _of course, but it disoriented them, blinded them, crippled them in a way.

And unfortunately, when one had gone off in his face, he'd made an exclamation of pain – and the others had attacked _en masse_.

The Shinji doppelganger had immediately jumped in to help, using his wand to burn oncoming ofuda, while it launched its own at the enemy, with the air lighting up in a tempest of sound and fury.

"Harry, go. Stop the ritual. I'll hold them off," the likeness of his friend had said, as combat intensified. Harry had been frozen for several long seconds as the memory of his father saying very similar words echoed in his head, before he was broken out of his reverie by the green orb from a _Verdimillious _crashing near him, which he could only try to roll away from.

He and the Daphne doppelganger went on alone, while he hoped that the copy of his friend could hold off the enemy. At least for a bit. They'd continued, running from the sound of battle, with Harry _sealing_ the Dark Wizards he saw on the way before they noticed him under his cloak.

He had reached the ritual room unmolested, only to find no one there – yet he knew it was only a matter of time before others came. Other Dark Wizards, all using ofuda and wand – a deadly combination.

He asked the Daphne doppelganger to hide against the wall under her cloak, in case she could help, while he did the task of trying to stop the ritual.

In the room had been a body of a somewhat reptilian looking creature, next to which lay a bronze chalice of some kind in the middle of a ritual circle of runes, a complicated contraption filling it with some eerily glowing liquid as the sound of chanting came from all around.

Unfortunately, his attempts to levitate the cup failed – disrupted by the circle of runes. So too did his attempt to push it out of the circle with _Flipendo, _so Harry had done the only thing he could think of – laying down a set of explosive ofuda around the circle to wipe out the runes.

Hopefully it would work, he'd thought at the time.

And with a muffled explosion, it had, the focused explosion destroying the rock on which the runes were described, allowing Harry to gr—

_Whump-boom!_

—to be thrown against the wall by an enemy, with his wand flying into the enemy's hand. An enemy with his face – albeit one without glasses, whose green eyes almost glowed in the darkness.

"Ah yes, I was wondering when you'd show up," the not-Harry had said, an ofuda of binding shooting out for Harry's prone form—only to be stopped by a jet of flame from an _incendio_.

When the doppelganger whirled to deal with the interloper, he had been hit in the chest by a disarming spell, his wands flying away a moment before he was knocked to the floor as Harry, enraged, had leapt at the copy of himself, throwing himself on the "ringleader's" back.

"You!" the copy had called, but he was unable to attack before Greengrass mercilessly discharged a _Flipendo_ into the back of the doppelganger's head at point-blank range, slamming his head into the ground with a sickening _crack. _And then she did it again. And again. And again, with Harry looking on in half horror as the head of his doppelganger was reduced to paste and at last the so-called head of the Dark Wizards grew still.

Harry had taken the opportunity to retrieve his wand, grab the chalice and burn the reptilian body, before the duo made to escape – only to find their way blocked. The fight in the earlier room was over now, and the enemies were streaming down towards the ritual room, a storm of ofuda coming towards them.

Harry swallowed. There was no way he'd be able to survive this, unless…

"Daphne, can you…"

The doppelganger nodded, throwing off her robe as she hurled a wave of fire forward with a short of _Incendio_, intercepting the ofuda in-mid-air and causing them to release their stored power early.

"Run," she'd ordered, as a jet of fire got past her defenses and burned away the sealing ofuda – all that had been keeping the poison from spreading as Harry froze. "Run, damn you Potter!"

The blackness spread up her arm, over her shoulder and across her chest, up her neck, and he could see her face fearful but determined.

"Go!"

He ran, horrified as the darkness took her, flesh being eaten away to reveal ash and bone, pushing past the pack of dark wizards with a wad of explosive ofuda as he made his escape out into the open air – and had Portkeyed out, chalice in hand.

With that, the scenario had ended, with him standing in the Defense Classroom awaiting Quirrell's judgment.

But the Dark Wizard had not criticized him for his performance. Indeed, Quirrell had _approved _of his willingness to sacrifice his allies in order to complete his mission, praising the fact that having noted that their deaths would not penalize him, Harry had acted accordingly. After all, his objectives had been to disrupt the ritual – which he had done – and to eliminate the leader, which he had done in a more brutal fashion than any of the others. After all, Matou had thrown his foe into a Devil's Snare, while Longbottom had resorted to using a Mandragora.

Of those who had killed their doppelgangers, only Potter had used brute force, holding him down as his ally offer him execution style.

"…but then, such is what I'd expect from a ruthless Slytherin such as yourself," the Defense Professor had said, his voice making Harry want to shudder, to throw up. "Sacrificing your friends to achieve your goals after using them to do your dirty work."

"I didn't ask her to…"

"But you didn't stop her, did you?" Quirrell asked. "As I said, I am impressed, Potter. Even more so than I was by Matou. You put your goals ahead of your friends – exactly as you should have. You even let them die in your place. Yes, you are indeed fit to be what your peers call you – the Heir of Slytherin. Dismissed."

Harry had proceeded to a bathroom after that challenge, where he had indeed puked his guts out. How could he have been praised for what he did? For how he'd failed? Faces swam before him. The face of Shinji as he faced a group of foes he could not beat to buy Harry time, knowing what his fate would be. The face of Daphne as she faced death, the blackness of decay and death spreading up her arm and over her body as she told him to run.

They'd died.

Oh, not the real them, but _they'd died _all the same.

And he'd run, when he said he wasn't going to let anyone else die for him, because he didn't want to fail – didn't want to die.

Some Stone Cutter he was.

He'd taken some comfort from Shinji's words, who had said to remember that Quirrell was a Dark Wizard – that he could have very well designed Harry's scenario to strike at his deepest fears, if he had guessed anything about the Boy-Who-Lived. But not much, and in spite of himself, he'd found himself talking about his scenario to Daphne, who had been honored that he'd chosen her for his mission – but a bit horrified at how far it had gone and what had happened to her.

"One way or another, sooner or later, we all die, Harry," she'd said, after a bit. "At least, it seems like my copy went out doing _something, _instead of without any meaning at all." Her lips had curved into a small smile then, as she continued wryly. "She even killed the Dark Lord Potter."

That had gotten Harry to laugh, just a little bit.

And now everyone waited to see who would win Quirrell's Challenge – the man had just named the short list of people who had completed their challenges at all, saying that most had failed – that most failed to understand their limits or exercise common sense in their ambition. Fear of failure. Fear of not doing enough. Fear of consequences. These could lead to doing too much – which could be just as bad as the fear of doing nothing at all.

But with that, he'd announced the winners, allowing them to select their prizes.

Top among the first years was, unsurprisingly, Harry Potter, though the Boy-Who-Lived had felt a frisson of pain and nausea as the Defense Professor _smiled_ at him, mentioning how his ruthlessness and his actions – those befitting a true Slytherin - had served him well. For that, Quirrell awarded him twenty House points and the right to choose the first prize.

Harry almost refused to take a prize, as he didn't really want to have anything to do with the man and his challenge, after Quirrell seemed to delight in using any opportunity to sabotage him in the eyes of others even as he praised him. Still, he took the _Book of Spells _anyway, as it was the only thing worth the mess, even if looking at it still brought him flashbacks. After all, Shinji had told him that if he won, he would share it with the Stone Cutters, and so he would do the same. He just hoped that the book could make something nicer than a dungeon, since they could use a place to practice. At least during Christmas, there would be time to explore the Castle, if one of the others wanted to.

Top among the second years was Cho Chang, the Seeker of Ravenclaw, who selected a Mokeskin pouch.

Unsurprisingly, George Weasley, who had scored the best of any Third Year student, took Quirrell's offered invisibility cloak - those things were quite expensive, after all, and would help marvelously for pranks.

Cedric Diggory, top among the fourth years, had taken the magical penknife which could unlock (almost) any door.

Robert Hillard, the _defacto_ head of the Stone Cutters and fifth year prefect of Ravenclaw House, had been top among the Fifth Years, and he'd taken the set of two way mirrors. A practical gift for a practical lad - much more so than the Tanuki statue from Matou, which had half amused him and half horrified him due to memories of Peeves teabagging the corpse of the Troll they'd slain on Halloween.

The Champion of the Sixth Years, a Gryffindor, had actually been delighted that the full set of Chocolate Frog Cards was still available, but then he was widely known for his obsession with them, almost to the point of kneeling down in worship when he found a particularly rare one.

And Rianne Felthorne, a hardworking Slytherin who was not a prefect or any such, who had done the best of any Seventh Year in the Challenge, had taken the bezoars, noting that she was sure Professor Snape wouldn't mind some extra ingredients.

With that, the presentation of the Champions was complete, and the students erupted in cheers. After all, they'd won House points…and well, winter break was upon them at last, with plenty of opportunity for feasting, mayhem, and mischief.


	20. Witch on a Holy Night

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

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><p><strong>Chapter 20.<strong> _Witch on a Holy Night_

After a time of magic, mayhem, and mixed feelings about both at a school hidden away in the wilds of Scotland, Hermione Granger found it almost _odd_ to be back in her childhood home in London for the winter holidays. She'd taken the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross with most of the other students once fall term had ended, and the first few days of being back had been...strange.

Everything was so orderly, so _neat._ The pictures on billboards and in books didn't move, and modern fashions took some getting used to, after the sea of black robes the students had worn and the archaic attire of the teaching staff. Not that they were any less bewildering. As an example, bomber jackets and ripped jeans were in vogue now, with too-skinny boys wearing oversized selections to try and make themselves look muscular, though they ended up looking like inflated Michelin men. And then, many girls were beginning to wear slip dresses and heavy duty DocMartens.

…and where many at Hogwarts had clamoured for a broom or other magical item for Christmas – which was why Quirrell's Challenge had been such a draw for them – children her age seemed to be obsessed over something called Sonic the Hedgehog, a spiky-haired anthropomorphic hedgehog with red sneakers, according to her parents. Incredibly, they described how many of the stores around London had been packed with adults trying to buy something called a Sega Megadrive at a staggering price of £190.

She'd been much more sensible in what she bought her friends – well, someone who might be more than a friend and someone who she wasn't sure to be a friend rather than an acquaintance – their presents, going to what she had always liked receiving most at Christmas – books.

For her sometimes-friend, sometimes-rival Shinji Matou, she'd bought a nice hardcover edition of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, as she thought the boy probably hadn't been exposed to any of the Bard's plays quite yet, and somehow doubted that he would hear much about them at Hogwarts or his homeland.

And for her friend-rival-who-knew-what Sokaris, she'd managed to find a nice collectible edition of _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Both of these had been sent off to Hogwarts via the Owl Post station at Diagon Alley, in what she thought would be her last encounter with magic for the next few weeks.

After all, Muggle London had no magic that she was aware of, aside from the magic of its history, and she herself was forbidden from casting any spells due to the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, which banned the use of magic outside of school by those who had not reached 17 – the age of majority in Magical Britain.

…although Sokaris had told her it was not enforced among wizarding families, as the magic of a child's magical parents would interfere with the charm used to monitor underage wizards and witches. She'd thought that was a poor choice for a way to keep things fair between people from muggleborn families and people from wizarding families, since even if most people followed the rules, there were always some who wouldn't – and who certainly wouldn't if there was no consequence for their rulebreaking.

Back in the days before the Parselmouth Incident and its fallout, Sokaris had hypothesized that the Trace hadn't actually been designed for its current purpose of enforcement. Given a long history of persecution by Muggles – especially the Catholic Church—Sokaris had suggested that the Trace had originally been meant as a means of protection for young practitioners – especially those who were not born to wizarding families, so as to let the Wizard's Council know if one was in distress and needed assistance, as they would otherwise not have other wizards or witches around to protect them.

Hermione supposed that sounded reasonable, but couldn't find any evidence of that in the books she perused. All she knew was that Pureblood/Muggleborn tensions dated back to at least the Founding of Hogwarts, given that _Hogwarts: A History_ had mentioned Salazar Slytherin's now-notorious insistence that the school only enroll Purebloods – a rule which had seemed bigoted and _wrong_ to her, and that wizarding history recorded how ineffectual witch hunters had been at catching true wizards and witches.

Regardless of the reason though, if she was caught using magic when she wasn't supposed to, the brunette knew there would be consequences. In the worst case, she might even be expelled, which was about the worst possible thing she could think of.

After all, to a normal child, death was something abstract, something one didn't think about as something that could really happen to them. Such was the province of the old, the sick, and characters in movies or books, not of the young, which is why things like liability waivers didn't mean much to them, with youths of every era known for aggression and rebelliousness. As such, things like notes sent home from school, detention, or expulsion were far more concrete, far more _real_, especially for someone who'd lived a comfortable, rather sheltered life like Hermione Granger.

And since she'd never gotten in trouble at Hogwarts, she didn't understand why so many students utterly detested Argus Filch, the caretaker of the school, when he was just doing his job. Certainly Matou had spoken of the man's cruelty and how Filch had tried to kill him, but Hermione couldn't believe that was true. It surely had been a misunderstanding of some kind, since someone that Headmaster Dumbledore had hired to watch over the school wouldn't actually try to harm a student…right? That the caretaker had tried to kill Matou was about as preposterous as rumors of students being forced to do detentions in the Forbidden Forest – a place filled with all sort of dangerous creatures, as everyone knew.

In any case, she'd almost gotten used to the way that rooms and stairs at Hogwarts would shift at the slightest provocation, something had to be factored in when going to class in the morning, given that one could going down a staircase to the Grand Corridor one moment, only to find oneself heading towards the dungeons in the next, almost as if the Tube changed directions at a moment's notice. Or the way that, in some of the corridors, the helmets of the many suits of armor would turn and watch students go by, as if reminding them that someone was looking out for them.

There was nothing like that in Muggle London. Places on the map never changed locations, so walking to different places was always predictable, and when one walked by, no one noticed. Even the air was filled not with the sound of the wind, but with the toots and honks of motorcars speeding by.

But that wasn't the worst part of being away from Hogwarts.

The worst part, besides being away from the two people her age who had seemed to appreciate her intelligence, even if they hadn't needed her help, was that she couldn't _talk_ about magic at all, that the details that made up her life were now a _secret_.

Whether at family gatherings, dinners with family friends, or casual conversations with other children, she had to pretend that Hogwarts, that _magic_, didn't exist, that she was just at a prestigious boarding school for gifted children.

And the terrible thing was, even though Hermione Granger was a terrible liar, she _got away with it_ because no one really seemed to care, with most of her relatives just asking for the sake of making conversation. They just answered "How Impressive," and "That's nice, dearie" as they always had, as if she could have said anything and it wouldn't have made a difference.

Of course, her parents, despite being quite ordinary and somewhat bemused by her oddities, were quite proud of her – and since they already knew about magic, she could tell them all about what she learned—but she knew they didn't really understand.

How could they, when all they knew were a few basics, like the existence of the magical world, along with tidbits like the location of Platform 9¾ or the fact that Hogwarts existed?

She wanted _so badly _to show them what she could do – to make something fly, to turn a needle into a matchstick—_something_. She'd even settle for making potions, but she didn't have the ingredients for any, nor had she brought most of her school supplies home.

Except for the books of course, so she could read them again. The textbooks covering the specifics of each spell, so she could see it in her mind's eye. The way the authors talked about the history of Hogwarts, almost as if sharing their secrets. The way the wizard in the books her parents had gotten her for Christmas talked about travels with trolls, holidays with hags, gadding with ghouls, and wandering with werewolves had described the life of an adventuring wizard, someone brave enough to explore the uncharted vistas the world had to offer.

It was…well, magical. Honestly, the only reason she hadn't thought Professor McGonagall was crazy the day she'd found out she was a witch and had been accepted to Hogwarts was that she'd always half-believed magic existed to begin with – because of books – because of the worlds of words that poured off the page and became _real_ in her imagination.

Of course, given her run through Quirrell's Dungeon Challenge - which had been decidedly unfair, given that the situation it depicted was utterly unrealistic, with the person she was escorting taking credit for what _she_ did - she had remembered the name of Gilderoy Lockhart, the man who coincidentally was the author of the books her parents had gotten her for Christmas.

But she thought nothing of it, guessing that Professor Quirrell probably just didn't like the man very much, since he'd come up with all the scenarios, which she'd heard odd things about. She'd never heard of such an exam before, and some of what people had had to go through seemed extreme, but since Quirrell was a good teacher though – and a skilled wizard - she thought the reason why he had designed the challenges as he had was a genius' eccentricity.

She'd read about _that_ often enough when it came to people like Albert Einstein.

But even thinking about all this was difficult to stomach, with her stuck in her thoroughly unmagical childhood home.

It would have been different if she and her family had gone on vacation to somewhere new and exotic, some foreign destination that she'd never been to before, but here…

_Tap-tap-tap._

…a tapping on her window pulled her out of her thoughts, with Hermione Granger looking up see two barn owls, each burdened with a vaguely rectangular parcel.

Hurriedly, the girl opened the window, with the owls dropping off their parcels on her desk before flying out into the cold once more, presumably having more deliveries to make.

She watched as they disappeared into the distance, bearing north, and closed the window, sighing. Then she turned to the parcels, curious as to who they might be from.

They were both wrapped in plain brown oilcloth and twine, though the hand had that addressed each was rather different. The first one she knew very well from study sessions and watching the other work—it was Sokaris', meaning that the purple-haired girl had actually sent her something. She hadn't been sure Sokaris would, after she started spending more time with…Matou.

…whose handwriting she thought was on the second parcel.

The timing of this…the way the packages were wrapped. The two hadn't picked out their presents…_together, _had they?

She swallowed, her mouth a little dry as she banished the thought and began unwrapping Matou's parcel first, wondering what he had sent her, with the oilcloth and twine falling away to reveal…

A book.

A pretty volume bound in pale green leather entitled _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, with an accompanying note from the boy resting on top.

_Hermione,_

_Thank you for the very interesting present. Even in Japan we know of _Romeo and Juliet_, but I've never had the chance to read it._

_Since I noticed how much you love books, I thought I would send you this collection of fairy tales which are popular among many practitioners of witchcraft._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Matou Shinji_

It was a simple note, but to Hermione, it was touching – two words of the message itself being particularly so.

_I noticed._

Because the sad truth was, people didn't often notice her when they didn't need her, expect if they thought she was a nuisance. And she knew full well that he didn't actually need her, even if he seemed to…maybe enjoy her company?

She leafed through the book briefly, finding that it was apparently a collection of what, as Matou said, were essentially fairy tales for young witches and wizards (in his rather peculiar and insistent terminology). Fairy tales – the first exposure even wizarding children had to magic, and it was not a panacea, how it brought tears as well as laughter, sadness, as well as joy. Though she had to smile that the witches who were the heroines of these tales seemed more active about seeking their fortunes than those in the fairy tales she knew of.

Was this a way of saying he…appreciated how hard she worked, instead of finding her annoying? He _had_ said he enjoyed spending time with her on that day, and had been so _nice. _He'd even referenced _Romeo and Juliet_ in his note.

…but he hadn't denied _liking_ Sokaris, and that made her nervous, and a little afraid, though she didn't know why. He was just a boy who was a friend. Maybe the only boy she'd ever thought of as a friend. But that was all. There was no reason for her to react like this to a simple gift.

Or for her to feel a little nervous as she looked back at the other parcel, the one addressed in Sokaris' hand, but wrapped identically to the one from Matou. But curiosity got the better of her, as she wondered what the purple-haired girl (who she still thought was a metamorphmagus) would send her.

She'd always seemed a little aloof, even if she noticed much more than she really should.

Not unexpectedly, this was a book as well, though it was obviously far older, with intricate designs worked into the forest-green cover, and the words _Book of Potions_ inscribed in gold – along with the picture of a steaming cauldron - against a purple backing. The author was apparently one Zygmunt Budge – a name she'd never heard of before.

And alongside it were two pieces of paper. The first of course, was a note.

_Hermione Granger,_

_The knowledge in these pages should prove interesting, should you choose to study it in depth. And for future reference, the use of magical artifacts does not violate the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. _

_Sokaris_

And the second…was a note authorizing the bearer to use the _Book of Potions_ until the end of the school year, signed by Professor Cuthbert Binns. But that meant that…

'…_this is a library book! And from the Restricted Secton!' _she thought in horror, looking between the book and the note. As much as she loved the library, even she knew that it wasn't right to give someone a gift that they would later _have_ to return, so why had Sokaris…well, not even given, since it would have to be returned…sent her this?!

The only occasion where something like that might be appropriate was if the book was something like the _Book of Spells_, a one-of-a-kind item that was more than—

"Well, don't just sit there, are you not going to bother opening me?" the…book? was saying to her now, with green smoke billowing from its pages as It flipped open of its own accord. "I was told by my last reader that you had a fierce intellect, but after suffering the indignity of being wrapped up and being transported by owls who seemed to make a game out of hitting every patch of turbulent weather, only to be just left here, I'm beginning to think she was wrong!"

Ok…perhaps she should have given Sokaris the benefit of the doubt…

"…who are you? Are you…the book?" she asked, never having imagined she'd have to deal with a situation like this in her childhood home.

In response to her question, the smoke thickened, with the dark silhouette of a wizard in robe and hat projected into it.

"You…haven't heard of me?" the silhouette asked, seeming almost shocked. "Why…I am Zygmunt Budge, and I am the greatest potion-maker _ever born_!" the voice thundered, as the smoke rose and vines and leaves arose from the pages. "This is no empty boast. I invented many of the wizarding world's most powerful potions. I discovered the properties of hundreds of secret plants and creatures. I have dedicated my life to the most mysterious and misunderstood branch of magic, and these pages contain the secrets of my art, distilled for new generations of Hogwarts students."

Hermione thought back to her Potions textbook – to the books she'd read in general for any mention of a Zygmunt Budge, but didn't recall a single one.

"…why haven't I read about you if you did so much?" she asked, puzzled. "In any of my textbooks?"

It wasn't as if this was someone like Nicholas Flamel, the genius alchemist, who would not be mentioned in a basic potions text. Someone who claimed to have accomplished so much would surely be credited for what he had done in even the most basic books, for after all, what could one possibly gain from not doing so?

"I…agh," the voice said, seeming to growl in disgust. "The sad fact is that I was _cheated_ of my rightful place in wizarding history by the short-sightedness, the pettiness, and the meanness of a headmaster whom I shall never name, because he does not _deserve_ to have his name in print besides _mine!" _Then the shadow sighed, his rant apparently running down. "Suffice it to say, my genius was unappreciated in my own lifetime."

Now, Hermione Granger knew a great deal about books – even magical books—but she'd never heard of a book that…had its own personality like this.

"…so what are you, exactly?" she asked, drawing her wand in case she needed it. "Are you the book? A ghost? Or something else?"

"Aha, finally a good question," the shadow spoke. "Why you, young potioneer, are fortunate enough to have before you my masterpiece: my '_Book of Potions', _containing my experience, and all of my distilled knowledge. I can teach you more about Potions than anything your textbooks - mere rubbish, those – or your professors could ever do. Why, we could make quite a team, you and I, with my genius and your…still having a body, at least if your colleague Sokaris was right about you."

Hermione wanted to argue, as this Zygmunt Budge reminded her of nothing as much as Professor Snape on one of his tirades, only considerably more self-centered and less incisive. But, she was distracted by the mention of her friendly rival's name, and the implications of it in this context.

After all, one of the classes where Sokaris and Matou consistently outperformed her was Potions, where the two almost invariably worked together, and achieved the best results. She didn't know why either, since they didn't seem to follow the recipes laid down in the basic…

…_ah._

"Did you…teach her?" the brunette asked. She wanted to know if this book was why Sokaris had done so well, for if the purple-haired girl had used it and _excelled_, well, it was a book, wasn't it? Presumably a more advanced one?

"Ah, yes, now _she_ was a delight to work with," the voice rhapsodized, the mood of the book – or was it the potionmaker – shifting unexpectedly to a more contemplative tone. "She, after all, appreciated what is literally my life's work – that I poured my very spirit into these pages to create a living tome, a store of knowledge, ingredients and tools _unsurpassed_ by any creation like it today."

…poured his very spirit into the pages? His soul? But why would someone do such a thing? It struck her as something only someone obsessed with a goal – with proving something to the world – would do. And she hadn't met any wizards quite like that.

"But enough of such talk," the spirit of Zygmunt Budge was saying, as the shadow seemed to look directly at her. "Let us test your skills. I assume you know how to make a Cure for Boils, at least?"

"Yes."

"I thought as much. Too simple, that," the voice agreed, seeming to ponder what would work. "Perhaps a Beautification Potion then. Yes, that should work quite nicely."

"A Beautification Potion?" Hermione asked. Somehow, she didn't think that was in the first year curriculum. At least, she hadn't seen it in the textbook.

"Yes, a concoction which when drunk enhances one's appearance to match society's ideal of beauty," the spirit answered. "Painlessly, of course. Not to worry, the effects are only temporary. Imagine spending your life attracting hordes of admirers because of your looks!" The book made a retching sound at the very notion of it. "Ugh! A repellent thought, indeed!"

With that, the shadow vanished, and with a puff of smoke, a cauldron appeared from the pages and _hopped_ off the book, onto her desk, propelled by what had looked like a _human leg._ It made what seemed like a sniffing sound as it shook itself, as if it had been sleeping for quite some time.

"There we go, my old hopping cauldron! Who says you can't take it all with you, eh?" the book said, its pages turning by themselves to the section on Beautification potions. "These cauldrons are faithful friends to any potioneer. Well, at least until you try mixing fluxweed and Exploding Fluid in them. After that, they tend to be less cooperative."

Hermione Granger was a little concerned, since this was nowhere to brew potions, as she lacked ingredients, didn't have a burner, or any such. But what she needed, the book supplied, as it was in and of itself a mobile potions laboratory, complete with fresh ingredients – including plants that she only assumed were fed with magic.

…she was starting to believe that if nothing else, Zygmunt Budge had been at least a great wizard. And that Sokaris had been right about magical artifacts, since no owls had come pecking at her window with a missive from the Ministry of Magic telling her off.

"…could I brew this somewhere else?" she asked hesitantly, thinking about her parents downstairs, and how, if she wasn't going to get in trouble…she wanted to show them some of what she could do. This book might be rude, uncouth, even presumptuous – but if it could let her show her parents part of her world, she wasn't going to complain. "I…want to show this to my parents. If that's alright."

"Well, I don't see why not," the book said reasonably. "After all, I have no qualm with more people appreciating my brilliance. Come now, cauldron, back to the book!"

The cauldron sighed and shook in place, as if exasperated.

"Come on, chop chop."

But with a clanking sound, it hopped onto the pages and vanished in a poof of smoke.

"Good. Now, lead the way to where you intend to brew, young potioneer! And to your audience," the voice said, almost…excited. "Why, I haven't had a proper one of those in _years_. Not since that…cretin denied my request to participate in the Championship. It was life on an island for me, and then after I made this book, Hogwarts had the _nerve_ to just put me in the library, where I sat on a shelf for _hundreds of years_…until your colleague kindly opened me. Frankly speaking, this is a breath of fresh air – not that I need air anymore, of course."

And so Hermione Granger closed the book and took the gifts from Matou and Sokaris down to her parents – who teased her about the Boy-From-The-East, but looked with at first interest – and then amazement at the _Book of Potions_, which quickly warmed to the occasion, showing off its collection of still-living plants, its Hopping Cauldron, the many tools it contained, and its ability to project directions into a room.

This one book was, frankly, the most magical thing Hermione Granger had ever seen, aside from the look of excitement and joy on her parents' faces to be seeing something of _her_ world.

Yes, it argued with her about proper recipes, insisting her textbooks were rubbish, and that _it_ knew better, as the spirit of Zygmunt Budge insisted that he should, for _he_ was the most brilliant potioneer ever born, not nobodies like Arsenius Jigger (the writer of _Magical Drafts and Potions_) or Libatius Borage (who wrote _Advanced Potion-Making_, the book for NEWT-level classes), whoever _they_ were.

It had been a novel concept to her - that books could disagree with one another, and she almost thought the reason she had issues with Budge was that in some ways, that smug certainty reminded her of..._Matou_. Yet – like the boy-she-thought-of-as-a-friend, when Budge felt like it and ceased his ranting – his spirit would gently explain the core concepts of the potions and ingredients they were using, as well as _why_ the more _basic _recipes were utter trash (a point which Hermione felt strongly about, but stopped arguing over after Budge said that if chose them over him, he wouldn't give her access to the resources of his masterpiece).

The Granger household was a bit more lively after the receipt of those parcels, with Hermione's language becoming perhaps a bit more...colorful. Still, over winter break, she had a chance to practice and to demonstrate her craft, had been given something to bridge the gap between the two worlds she bestrode. Rude, argumentative, and crass the book's spirit may have been, it had granted her wish, to share the world of magic with her family.

No. Sokaris had granted her wish, knowing as she did how valuable the book was. Just as Matou had in his own way. And for what they had done for her, she had only one thought, though she still worried about what Matou and Sokaris were to each other, and disagreed with them greatly on the importance of rules and respecting authority.

Gratitude.

* * *

><p>AN: For those curious about the _Book of Spells_ and the _Book of Potions, _their existence is indeed canon - but they are not Horcruxes, as those involve the murder of something else.


	21. Moonlight and Morning

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21.<strong> _Moonlight and Morning_

Compared to the bustling scene of Hogwarts during a school term, the school during the holidays was a strange, almost alien place. Winter had left the corridors cold, and what few students would have been scurrying from class to class had long departed for home on the Hogwarts Express, leaving the halls devoid of life. Even many of the staff had taken their leave to see family and friends elsewhere, with only a few – the Heads of House, the Headmaster, and the Keeper of the Grounds and Keys – remaining due to their responsibilities.

Shinji had of course taken the opportunity to deliver his gift of tea to a delighted Flitwick, who had regaled him with tales of a dueling tournament long ago and checked up to see how he was doing, but aside from that hadn't concerned himself much with others.

For the suspension of classes had other implications too.

What few students remained did not bother with their Hogwarts uniform of plain back work robes and black pointed hat (even though the hat itself was rarely worn by anyone except Minerva McGonagall) or their heavy winter cloaks with silver fastenings, instead wandering around dressed in motley mixes of muggle and magical clothing.

The dull roar of the multitude's steps and background chatter that usually echoed through the hallways was mostly absent as well, with the tapestries inside and snow outside muffling what little incidental sound the castle's current denizens made during their meanderings.

Not that many meandered at all, with most preferring to stay within the comfort of their dormitories or common rooms, given that there was little reason to go outside. There was no need to even go to the Great Hall, as meals could be taken in the dormitories, with a table laden with breads, cheeses, and platters of English muffins, eggs, sausages, mugs of cocoa and marshmallows constantly stocked by default.

Twas something of a shame, given how so much effort had gone into decorating the Hall, with festoons of holly and mistletoe hanging from every wall, and no less than twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with hundreds of candles, and some shining with branches laden with tiny golden bubbles.

There was only one major holiday event in the Hall which the students who'd stayed were expected to attend. This was the Christmas Feast, a festive, raucous thing that as Shinji had found out from the House Elves would involve copious quantities of alcohol for the staff, a hundred fattened roast turkeys, mountains of roast and boiled potatoes, platters of chipolatas – a kind of ground-pork sausage seasoned with herbs and spices – wrapped in streaky bacon (which together made up "pigs in blankets", the traditional accompaniment to roast turkey), tureens of buttered peas, silver boats filled to the brim with thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce, and of course, hundreds of exploding party favors known as wizard crackers.

And after all that would come dessert in the form of hundreds of Christmas puddings, each of which was made of dried fruits held together by egg and suet, moistened with treacle and flavoured with cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger and other spices. These were a specialty, with a batch prepared the Christmas before and aged until the next, until – finally ready to serve, each pudding was doused with brandy and set alight, appearing on the tables like hundreds of speckled cannon-balls, blazing in half of half-a-quarter of ignited brandy and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Not for the first time when dealing with the food at Hogwarts, Shinji felt that his grounding in Western culinary traditions had been somewhat…lacking. Or perhaps in this case, that he was a victim of misinformation, given that he, like most people in Japan, believed that Westerners celebrated Christmas with a dinner of fried chicken, cake, and champagne due to a brilliant "Kentucky for Christmas" ad campaign first launched in 1974 (and continuing to this day!). Perhaps because of this, a Christmas Party Barrel of KFC's "Christmas Chicken" (with the top half full of crisp and juicy pieces of chicken, and bottom half sectioned off to hide a complete Christmas sponge cake, complete with fresh strawberries and whipped cream) and a bottle of champagne were considered the go-to choice for a holiday meal – so much so that people usually ordered one months in advance.

Even someone like Matou Shinji remembered waiting in line with his father on Christmas Eve for a bucket of the Colonel's Original Recipe drumsticks when he was very young, before he'd found out that his life was a lie – that he in fact was _not _the heir – at which point Byakuya had stopped even pretending to care about him.

To find out that his belief that Westerners ate chicken at Christmas was a lie – that they typically preferred ham or turkey – the latter of was fairly uncommon in Japan – was less jarring than he'd thought though, given the emotional roller coaster he'd been on these last few weeks.

The rather traumatizing Seek and Preserve Scenario of Quirrell's, which he'd been pushed to his limits to complete – but hadn't even won – was one source of annoyance. At first, he had thought it would be easy, that it would be a trifling thing to win without revealing too many of his secret skills, but after the ambush and everything that came after, he'd ended up having to use his _ofuda_ in a number of unconventional ways, revealing that he could use them at the same time as his wand – and implicitly, their weakness to fire. And then there'd been the doppelganger he'd faced at the end, an enemy who had nearly beaten him – who he'd only beaten because he hadn't shown all of what he could do.

Was the sight of his dying face a premonition of things to come, since Quirrell had now taken his measure, as the Boy-Who-Lived's scenario had demonstrated full well?

For the first few days of it, Shinji had either roamed the halls or secluded himself in his room, looking into the _Ofuda and Origami_ tome for more information.

He knew now that Quirrell had learned about the weaknesses of ofuda – fire – and had seen that both he and Potter were capable of using ofuda to some degree – as well as how they worked in battle. And while Shinji knew that in his current state, he stood no chance at beating Quirrell without at least the element of surprise, he'd competed in the challenge because the _Book of Spells_ was something he'd wanted to win – to learn from – to use to boost his skill and power, to practice new abilities that might otherwise be risky in his current room.

And based on everything he'd heard from how everyone else did, he had stood a good chance of winning best in his year.

…but in the end, he hadn't won – which honestly upset him to a degree. Not as badly as it could have, since Harry had ended up taking the top prize – and had said he'd share the _Book of Spells_ with the other Stone Cutters, but it still rankled.

Especially since Harry had been avoiding him these first few days of the winter holidays – though Shinji had to admit that he had not actively sought the other boy's company either. He'd been mostly holed up in his room, looking for new combinations of ofuda he could use – or combinations of witchcraft spells and ofuda, new variations that might mitigate the paper's vulnerability to fire.

So far, he hadn't seen anything too promising for combat use. Yes, elemental ofuda or ofuda arrays would theoretically work, and there was probably a charm to freeze flames, disrupt other spells or the like, but all in all, he wondered if it would be enough. He hadn't had the opportunity to really make or try out the new varieties, given that he knew that each type _felt _different to make, and unless he was able to fully concentrate, it was too easy to slip back into one of the older patterns of flow – making one of his usual sealing, warding, or binding ofuda instead.

He wondered if his time would be better spent delving into the subtle variations of each one yet, as he knew there was more to the warding-type he could probably exploit from using multiple – maybe to create a shield array or something – but the book didn't offer much to go on.

Then again, it was a book of basic principles, and wasn't one designed to teach the use of ofuda in combat, which was part of the reasons he wanted – _needed_ the _Book of Spells_ for an edge.

…not unlike the edge the power of his wand gave him when it came to raw spell power , the wood and core working together in a rather potent combination – albeit one that made precision work a fair bit more difficult, which accounted for some of his difficulties with Transfiguration.

His mother's wand might have been more useful for controlled work, if he'd tried it – but in his current state, it was not something Shinji could use. Not in terms of compatibility, since the ideal owner of a willow wand usually had both insecurity, however well hidden, and great potential – not that Shinji knew that, but in terms of mindset. For years he'd thought of his mother as useless, and receiving her wand had dealt a severe blow to this, as well to his confidence, given how she'd simply…died when Zouken willed it.

He was determined to be different. To be powerful. To shake the foundations of the world itself and make those around him take heed.

That wand had represented everything he'd kept secret – everything he feared – every last crippling moment of self-doubt and self-loathing he'd hidden away, all those things he had never shared with anyone before – couldn't share.

And he knew Sokaris knew this, since she was the only student who'd ever seen him weak, bereft of the masks he wore around pretty much everyone else. That was why he had given her his mother's wand, a visible symbol of how much he trusted her, an admission that he was her friend and would help her as she'd helped him, wherever that led.

He was actually thankful that she'd chosen to stay at Hogwarts over the winter holidays as well, since it was his first Christmas abroad, and the sheer strangeness of it was deeply unsettling. After all, Christmas was not a national holiday to him, nor a time for family to get together – that was usually reserved for the New Year – the most important holiday in Japan, where businesses were shut down for several days in early January, people made their shrine visits, and resolutions _mattered._

Not for the first time did he feel like a stranger in a strange land. The routine of classes and meals had mitigated that to an extent, but without all of those distractions, the weight of it hit him like one of those Bludgers he'd seen in Quidditch.

He'd done what he could to keep the worst of it away, dressing in the attire he was used to back at home – though he did note how useful work robes were for concealing things like ofuda and such – and going to the Kitchens for meals, where he'd asked the House Elves to prepare more Japanese-style foods for him instead of the more British spread they usually were tasked with making.

Sometimes he saw Sokaris there, and from there, they'd wander the castle – or its grounds – in near silence, punctuated every so often by a note or observation about their surroundings.

Only once in these last few days had he seen Harry, but the other boy didn't have much to say. Harry didn't look like he'd slept well, with shadows under his eyes and a haunted, almost harried look, but when Shinji asked, the Boy-Who-Lived didn't really want to talk about it, only saying that it had to do with Quirrell and Voldemort.

Shinji hadn't pressed the boy, since the last thing he wanted was for Potter to feel cornered, forced into talking before he was comfortable with it. At least Potter had Sokaris to talk to – or so Shinji suspected, as Sokaris had mentioned no other Slytherins had stayed for the holidays, which he didn't think she noted just from noting activity in the hallways (since there was little enough from any House).

He supposed it might have to do with the fact that his doppelganger had died in Harry's scenario, since the Boy-Who-Lived had a bad case of survivor's guilt, exacerbated by what the entire world recognized him for: surviving. Surviving where everyone else died – only able to survive when everyone else died, and not only being forced to _remember _it every night, but being praised for it.

…that would traumatize anyone, except perhaps a die-hard magus, which even Shinji was not.

He'd just have to hope that Sokaris would be able to get through to Potter, which made him somewhat uncomfortable, since he didn't like relying on other people. All the same, he would if he had to, and it wasn't like Sokaris was unreliable when she had a goal in mind.

But tonight was Christmas Eve, and for the night, he would put such things out of his mind, given that he was to have a special dinner with Sokaris. Since this was apparently her first Christmas, he wanted to do something nice for her beyond the gift of the wand, and had talked the House Elves into making something _special_ for the evening to be delivered to Ravenclaw Tower.

He'd asked Sokaris earlier to join him in the Common Room tonight for dinner, and to wear what she had the first night they'd met – the all-white ensemble of long skirt, white blouse, white stockings and even _boots_, with a golden scarf tied in a manner reminiscent of a cravat and gold bracelets on each wrist providing the only splashes of color.

She had stared at him flatly for a few seconds, but had nodded, agreeing to come sometime after sunset, when the sky grew dark and the moon rose.

Which it was now, with Shinji walking down the stairs of Ravenclaw Tower, fresh from the shower in his finest, an all-black ensemble of shirt, slacks, jacket and shoes. In truth, he felt a little nervous – he didn't think Sokaris would be easily impressed, not after she'd simply given him the location of the Room of Hidden Things, but he wanted to share with her something from home.

He only hoped the house elves had done as he asked, as he stepped from the stairwell into the Common Room—and paused, frozen by what he saw.

Sokaris was standing near the window, the light of the silvery moon on her all-white ensemble making her seem ethereal – almost otherworldly – as she looked out over the snow-covered grounds of Hogwarts, and the mountains in the distance, almost glowing in the moonlight.

"While surrounded by darkness, I perceived the oddest dream. Everlasting nightmare, endless -. And yet I rise, to crimson night and cerulean moon," she spoke quietly, in a soft, intimate voice Shinji didn't think he was meant to hear, yet which filled the room at once. "Salvation, misfiction, unfinished dance. A hymn to the stars – and a hymn to the moon." And then she turned, her eyes noticing him as she nodded. "Good evening, Matou Shinji."

Shinji swallowed, but stepped forward into the circular chamber designed for so many more people, a chamber which tonight played host to them and them alone, with most of the other furniture cleared, a table for two set in its middle, and hundreds of candles floating in the air, like flickering stars in the darkness.

"Good evening, Sokaris," he said, bowing deeply to the girl, deciding not to ask about the words she spoke before. "I'm pleased you could join me tonight."

"I admit to a measure of curiosity as to what you have planned," the purple-haired Ravenclaw replied, nodding as she noted the odd set-up. "You requested this of the House Elves?"

"Indeed," Shinji remarked. "Shall we see what they have come up with?" he asked. When she nodded, he walked over to the table and pulled out a chair, gesturing that his companion should sit. "After you, then."

After all, as a boy who had once thought he would be the head of the Matou, an almost noble family, it wouldn't have done not to know at least a bit about etiquette. While such might not have been too useful at most meals at Hogwarts, he was thankful for having studied it now.

"Very well."

Sokaris all but glided over the floor in response to his invitation, settling herself upon the chair he had pulled out with a minimum of fuss.

Once she had done so, Shinji sat across from her and clapped once, with a fig, cheese, and prosciutto plate appearing in the middle of the table and a small bowl of French onion soup appearing before him and his…dining companion, along with an accompanying gougère (a baked savory choux pastry made of choux dough mixed with cheese, filled with delicate mushrooms).

"A French menu?" Sokaris asked, raising a delicate eyebrow. "I was under the impression you wished to show me how Christmas was celebrated in your homeland."

"In Japan, Christmas is a holiday associated with Western prosperity," Shinji noted mildly, "hence…Western foods. "

"Prosperity and not religion. Fascinating," the purple-haired girl observed, as she delicately began to sample the food before her. "I assume other traditions differ as well, aside from the menu selections."

"Christmas isn't a day for family either," he admitted, thinking back to what he knew of the holiday. "It is a day when one spends time with someone special, like a close friend."

That it was also a day spent with lovers in Japan was something that had slipped his mind, as those sorts of things were not what he thought about quite yet.

"I see," the girl acknowledged. "I assume the popularity of the holiday began after World War II, during the occupation?"

"Yes," Shinji said, noting how precise and efficient Sokaris was with all her movements, even eating. "Christmas was a symbol of a prosperous modern lifestyle, when the country was in shambles and many people starved. And even when we had enough, we didn't have sweets."

"Hence the importance of the cake."

"And the main course," Shinji said, as the two finished their appetizers.

"Western as well?" Sokaris asked, head tilting fractionally. "Ham, perhaps?"

"Fried chicken, actually," the Boy-from-the-East noted with a soft smile.

With a single clap of his hands, the plates disappearing and replaced by the main course, which was – appropriately – fried chicken, but with a bit of a french twist, with two sides: a large bowl of sweet corn mixed with butter, cilantro, and fresh lime juice, as well as a dish of wild mushroom macaroni and cheese slathered in rich Fontina and Asiago cheese, with extra dimension of texture from cracker meal bread crumbs mixed into the dish.

As for the meat, the chicken had been first poached, then cooled and coated in a secret "mayonnaise," of raw chicken shavings, chicken stock, and eggnog flavored with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. The skinless free-range birds had next been dipped into day-old bread crumbs and briefly fried in vegetable oil.

The result…well, was a sublime dish any whose experience with fried chicken was merely a bucket of takeout would weep to experience.

The skin was delicately crisp with an organic, unprocessed texture; the meat was plump and dripping with flavor, and the sharp taste of the Dijon dipping sauce that came with it was to die for. And of course, as an added bonus and true to French form, the bed of _pomme purée_ (mashed potatoes) that the chicken was served with was decadently creamy and buttery, rounding out the satisfyingly refined gustatory experience.

They ate mostly in silence, talking here and there about some of their past experiences in vague intimations and allusions.

Shinji managed to piece together that Sokaris had never eaten a Christmas dinner before, but that she was certainly no stranger to finery, being the heiress of a once-great family herself, and – like him – disliked large crowds. She preferred the solitude of a workshop, where she was free to do research, and see what she could learn, away from prying eyes.

When asked why she didn't mind spending time with him, she'd merely answered: "Because we are alike, Matou Shinji. As you and Potter are alike."

"Speaking of which…how is Harry?" Shinji asked worriedly. "If you've talked to him, that is."

"You are aware of his dreams, Matou?" Sokaris countered, trading a question for a question as she finished a morsel of chicken. When Shinji nodded, she continued. "Then you know why he avoids you."

"I can guess," the boy replied, sighing. "But I would rather you tell me, if you could."

"He is afraid, Matou Shinji," the purple-haired Ravenclaw summed up, her eyes looking not quite at him, but at something distant. "Afraid that those who get close to him will die, and that he, and he alone will be the one who lives."

"Quirrell's scenario," Shinji growled, feeling a sudden rush of anger flow through him. "He did it on purpose, didn't he?"

"One assumes so from the evidence at hand," Sokaris answered grimly. "Our opponent is cunning, after all, and given that the Boy-Who-Lived is the nominal leader of the Stone Cutters – who might oppose him – Quirrell likely focused his efforts on crippling Potter's will to fight through showing him the likely consequences of his actions."

"…I thought those scenarios were just to get a picture of what we could do," Shinji admitted, frowning now. "For him to use them in _that _way…I never expected something like that."

"Few would," the purple-haired girl filled in for him. "Indeed, Potter's victory – due to his ruthlessness, some say – was likely part of Quirrell's plan as well. For once again, the Boy-Who-Lived survived, and those who only wished to protect him died. Once again, he was alone."

Sokaris closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and exhaling, an expression of pain flickering her face, before opening them again.

"I know somewhat of what that is like," she admitted, looking down at her now empty plate as if it held the answers she needed. "But I have a goal I must attain, no matter what it might cost me."

Shinji rather thought she meant the Stone, but didn't ask. Frankly, he didn't want to know, as he didn't want to be responsible for knowing.

"I'll help you," he found himself saying. "You don't have to tell me what it is you're looking for. Just tell me what I can do. You've helped me more than enough."

"You trust me," she said, half matter-of-factly, half…wonderingly?

"More than anyone else I know," Shinji replied. Which admittedly wasn't all that much, but he trusted that she wouldn't intentionally harm him if she could avoid it, just as he would do the same for those he had any feelings for.

"Seemingly a bold admission, but likely not," Sokaris observed, with Shinji grimacing, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Still, trust is a dangerous thing to have for anyone, Matou Shinji, so the gesture is appreciated. As has been this meal. It was…surprisingly agreeable."

"You don't want any cake? That's the best part," Shinji teased, composing himself once more. This had indeed been a fine dinner – the finest he had had at Hogwarts.

"If you insist," the girl in white demurred, clapping her own hands once, as the empty plates and bowls that had housed the main course vanished, with the Christmas cake – the _pièce de résistance _of the meal – a white strawberries and cream sponge cake, frosted with whipped cream and topped with fresh strawberries. These strawberries had been cut in half, with a dollop of cream separating base from "hat" resembling a face with a chocolate smiley face in each one.

It was remarkably cute, even by Japanese standards.

"And here it is, the cake," Shinji murmured. He hadn't expected the house elves to do something like _this_. He knew they were capable of beautiful decorations and delicious food, but he usually didn't see the two combined, though he imagined that was because they usually cooked in bulk. "Red and white, like the rising sun. Round, the shape of things usually given as offerings at shrines."

"Such significance in a pastry," Sokaris remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Fascinating."

They dug in, with Shinji cutting his dining companion the first slice, and she a bit for him, alternating until little by little, even this sugary confection was no more.

The end of food did not mark the end of the conversation, however, as the two talked for some time, taking advantage of the fact that no one else was in the dormitories during the holidays.

They talked of class, of expectations, of pranks, and other things – all in the language of intimations and allusions. They said very little compared to most, but what was said had depths of meaning, double meanings, and many things that may or may not have been partly missed.

Still, the important things, the essential things, were understood, for those were not heard with the ears or seen with the eyes – but by the heart, as flawed as the human heart could be.

But soon enough, the evening drew to an end, with them looking out upon the softly glowing world outside, bathed in the light of the watery moon.

"Sokaris…will you join me for Christmas tomorrow?" Shinji worked up the nerve to ask. He didn't want her to just disappear save for meals, to be alone on that day when things were like to be so strange. "To see Potter and the others…"

He trailed off, not knowing quite what to say. Out of the others at Hogwarts, she was the only one who really intimidated him, after all.

Still…

"Perhaps so," she said as she glanced over at the boy. "I, too, would like to assess Potter's condition, and I do not find your company…disagreeable."

With Sokaris, Shinji knew that was about all he could hope for, and that he'd have to wait until tomorrow to see.

"Merry Christmas then, Sokaris."

"And a Merry Christmas to you, Matou Shinji."

* * *

><p>The past few days had been rather difficult for the Boy-Who-Lived, as without the distraction of classes, challenges, and meetings of the Stone Cutters, Harry had only his thoughts to dwell on – rather dark thoughts, in fact. He considered himself a failure in many ways, since he knew he wasn't really what people thought him to be.<p>

They thought of him as a hero, but he was only the Boy-Who-Lived, the boy for whom others died that he might live. Quirrell – his enemy – had praised him to the skies for his ruthlessness in the scenario, but the thing was, Harry hadn't wanted the alter-Shinji or alter-Daphne to sacrifice themselves for him. He'd wanted to get through safely, to not have any of his friends hurt.

But…to see his best friend's face grim with resolve as he told him to run – much like his father had; to see his closest ally in Slytherin be overtaken by a curse, telling him to run, to live - how was he supposed to stand that?

He was only 11 years old.

And yet, people already expected great and terrible things from him, all the more so since he'd been sorted into Slytherin, and been proclaimed by the students as Slytherin's Heir. Why, some of the Muggleborns looked at him in fear now, no doubt thinking he would open the Chamber of Secrets and kill them – even though the only person he'd hurt – not even meaning to – was Draco Malfoy, who was about as anti-Muggleborn as one could get.

Even Professor Quirrell thought of him as a monster, praising him for doing what only a monster would do, as if that would mark him as Quirrell's equal or some such.

He shivered, feeling very cold as he curled himself into a tight ball in bed.

Shinji, he knew, didn't see him that way. The boy-from-the-east taught him, talked to him like a normal person, was kind to him even though he was taunted, had been pranked and worse. But that friendliness scared him, scared him all the more because he could see Shinji actually sacrificing himself.

His best friend dying because he couldn't measure up.

Tears welled up in Potter's eyes as he tried to banish the image of that grim, hard expression. He'd seen it before too, seen it in the fight with the Troll, where Matou had showed him just what the eastern art could do.

…but what if it wasn't enough?

And he didn't think it would be, against Quirrell. That had been as much the Defense Professor's message as anything else, that once Harry ran out of tricks, all he would have was his friends. Friends – he'd wanted to have to those, to have people approve of him for so long, but in a way he feared it too, knowing how much it would hurt to lose them. In a way, the mercenary nature of most relationships in Slytherin made sense – Parkinson, for instance, only attached herself to him because she thought it was a winning strategy – since doing what was best for oneself kept people from being hurt too badly.

It was not for nothing that Slytherin was the house of intrigue, of cunning, of ambition – and those who were ambitious rarely let anything stand in their way, not even a claim of friendship.

They wouldn't act against him for now – not with him being both the Boy-Who-Lived and the Heir of Slytherin, not as long as he kept up an appearance of strength and didn't involve himself with the many feuds in the house.

As long as he was seen as above such petty things, they wouldn't bother him. Only Malfoy had done so before anyway, and the blond knew that attacking him would not help his own position.

At the same time, it didn't make him many friends, since they wondered what his game really was – what the ambition of the Slayer of Voldemort could be – and the older students didn't want to get in his way, lest they be trampled over in his quest for eternal glory, power, or some such.

Not that he had any grand ambitions, except to become a hero – the hero everyone wanted him to be – to save everyone in his sight, should Voldemort, or someone like him, return.

But at what cost would that come?

He'd talked about that with Sokaris these last few days, with the two of them sitting in the Slytherin Common Room or the Kitchens. The enigmatic Ravenclaw had been surprisingly helpful to him, but he supposed Quirrell was their common enemy, so it made sense she'd want to help. She'd asked him not what the cost of him becoming a hero would be, but what the cost would be if he did nothing, and yet what he feared – Voldemort's return – came to pass anyway.

…it had been a very chilling question.

She'd even used the Book of Spells to make him relive that hated scenario, only without his involvement. What would have happened had he not been there? Very possibly the same thing, only this time, the Dark Wizard would have won. The two would have died in vain, died for nothing, instead of achieving something.

It scared him a little, how cold Sokaris seemed about death, how analytical she was, how she did not flinch at the sight of Matou – who he thought was her friend – charging to his death, or Greengrass, who she sometimes worked with, dying from a powerful curse, her body eaten away. It looked – sounded – smelled – felt – so _real_, and yet Sokaris hadn't reacted at all.

He realized in that moment that he knew nothing about her, that he was spilling his soul to a complete stranger. But then, he'd done that to Matou too.

In some ways, the two had a similar aura, something which became more evident when one spent time alone with either of them, as opposed to in the classroom setting. He supposed that was why he felt safe talking to Sokaris about this, since she had no reason to betray him. She knew worse secrets – and had proposed at least one thing that he needed to keep secret as well.

It was a very Slytherin relationship there – obviously the only reason she'd told him about the Philosopher's Stone was because she wanted to keep it from Quirrell and needed the Stone Cutters for it. He knew it, as did she, and within the bounds of that relationship, he felt safe. They both held some of the other's secrets, and so could not betray the other.

But she'd helped him nonetheless, which is more than anyone would have done, even if he still had nightmares. Even if it still hurt, if the pain was still raw and jagged and molten.

Harry sighed as he got up slowly. Once again, he hadn't slept well, and now, it was Christmas Day, a day when everyone would be happy, when the Feast was scheduled to be held. He didn't know if he was up for it – didn't even know if he'd get any presents.

He was very glad that all the Slytherins had gone home, and no one was there to see his secret shame, or they'd think him weak – a target. The Boy-Who-Lived – the Boy-Who-Was-Lonely – or maybe the Boy-Who-Was-Loony – that would be a riot.

Still, when he looked around the room, he spotted something that wasn't there before: a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

_Presents._

He didn't deserve them, of course, but he couldn't just leave them there. That, too, would be rude, and it wouldn't do to be impolite.

So, Harry picked up the parcel on top of the stack, one wrapped roughly in thick brown paper, with the words "To Harry, from Hagrid" scrawled across it. As he unwrapped it, he found a roughly cut wooden flute, one that he thought Hagrid had probably whittled himself.

The next parcel – slightly larger – was more finely wrapped in glossy blue and bronze paper, with a tag indicating that it was from Robert Hillard, fellow Stone Cutter and Prefect of Ravenclaw. Inside was a set of pure gold Gobstones – a game similar to marbles, save that that the stones would spit at the player if they lost points. Almost every wizarding child had one – and Harry was rather grateful that _he_ had one now – though he felt guilty about not having a gift for Hillard…or anyone else, really.

He thought that the _Book of Spells_ would work well enough as a gift for his fellow Stone Cutters though, enough so they wouldn't complain.

A box of prank goods - from the Weasley Twins, of course – was in the next parcel, containing an assortment of devices, powders, and ingredients with which to cause mischief and mayhem. It was indeed something he should have expected of them, and he thought he might be able to find a use for them.

Pansy had sent him a rather large box of Chocolate Frogs – something fairly impersonal, but safe, since who didn't like candy?

Sokaris had given him three items – a Mokeskin pouch, a Foe-glass and a set of Omnioculars – with a reminder to keep track of both who was coming for him and what was yet to come. As a would-be hero, he would undoubtedly have enemies, but it was important to remember not to get tunnel vision and succumb to paranoia. These were practical gifts, and as he looked into the Foe-Glass, he wasn't surprised that the most distinct figure was he recognized quite well.

After all, he saw Professor Quirrell in class most days of the week.

The next parcel felt very light, almost soft, and when he unwrapped it, something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds, its texture like water woven into cloth.

…an invisibility cloak, this. He remembered it well from Quirrell's demonstration as well as his scenario, where he'd seen how useful such things could be – but at the same time, so frighteningly limited, since all it could do was hide someone from sight, not from harm…

And from its folds could be found a note. Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen before were the following words:

_Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well._

_A Very Merry Christmas to you._

_Albus Dumbledore_

…seeing those words actually made Harry angry. He'd heard from wizard after wizard how Dumbledore was the one wizard Voldemort ever feared, so what need had Dumbledore for an invisibility cloak? The Headmaster was known to always be at Hogwarts, so it wasn't as if the man needed to hide, or that in the case he needed one, he couldn't have just _bought _one.

It rankled especially as Harry knew that Voldemort had been hunting _him _and him alone, as his dreams seemed to argue was the case, given that the Dark Wizard therein had offered his mother a chance to step aside instead of just killing her.

So he wondered: would his father – or his mother – still be alive today if they'd had the cloak on the night the Dark Wizard came?

Anger was an interesting thing. It needed a target, whether it was the self or some other – and Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster who would endanger all of Hogwarts by setting a trap for a Dark Wizard in a school, presented a convenient one.

_After all, _why? Why had the Headmaster had this? Why had he held onto it for so long? Why had he kept it if he knew Harry's parents had been in danger?

And why was the man giving it to him now, almost as if encouraging him to do mischief – or trying to bribe him by giving him something that should be his by right anyway.

It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at _all_.

He left the cloak on the ground, not even wanting to look at it, as he turned back to the dwindling pile of gifts, the next of which was…Shinji's. Wondering what his best friend had given him did help settle him a bit, as it was more pleasant to think about than…_that night._

The small chest was not wrapped, so opening it was a simple matter. Inside though, were some jewels and galleons, a self-inking quill to make writing easier, and what seemed at first like a ribbon wrapped around nothing, but was really a book on closer inspection.

The_ Invisible Book of Invisibility_, as it turned out once Harry opened the book to the title page. A tome which apparently contained a wealth of information how to conceal of oneself and one's belongings – something which would undoubtedly come in handy in Slytherin – something well worth reading now that he found himself in possession of an invisibility cloak. He needed to know what it could and could not do, after all, since as he'd learned, invisible didn't mean invulnerable.

A bit inconveniently, he'd have to keep the ribbon around the book if he wanted to find it again, since otherwise, it simply vanished when closed. Troubling, that, but most wizards didn't really have much common sense.

Along with those had been a collapsible cauldron and ingredient prep set, with Shinji noting that since Professor Snape was Harry's head of house, it might behoove him to get a little more practice in Potions.

That was the last one in the stack, and Harry had thought that was all, at first. At least until he looked down on the ground, where a last gift lay – the largest of all – a beautiful model of the Milky Way encased in a large glass ball about a meter in diameter, resting on a handsome ebony stand.

Within the sphere, the galaxy turned slowly, a conglomeration of hundreds of billions of stars against the darkness of space. And as he learned by trial and error, if he spoke the name of something he wanted to see, it would zoom in and show him that – and only that – Earth, Mars, the Moon, the Solar System, or some nebulae – or even some feature on Earth, like Hawaii or Timbuktu.

It could tell him where a planet or star would be on a given date – so that he'd never have to worry about Astronomy homework again – and could just enjoy the nights on the Tower. And even more, it could project the illusion of space – or a place he chose – all around him – bringing him a sense of peace as he imagined himself drifting among the stars.

Looking at it, he almost forgot where he was for a second, lost himself in something besides himself for the first time in days.

Eventually, he did end up reading the note affixed to the base, feeling rather…touched when he found out who had sent it and what she had written.

_To the Boy-Who-Lived, Heir of Slytherin or maybe just Harry Potter,_

_I don't know what's been bothering you, but keep your chin up, Potter. I hope this helps you to remember there's a world all around you, and that even in the gloomiest moments of our lives, the stars still shine._

_Merry Christmas._

_Daphne Greengrass _


	22. Snow and Sand

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 22.<strong> _Snow and Sand_

Outside, the snow came down, gentle flakes drifting silently to the ground below, a pure white mantle blotting out the world. No scarlet in the sky, no darkness on the hills below – even the trees and the road were covered over on this grey Christmas morning.

Harry had gone up to the Owlery, where Hedwig was staying with the other owls, intending to send off a thank you note for Daphne Greengrass. It was a simple thing along with a small present of his own – a slim, elegant necklace with a green, tear shaped emerald suspended on a length of delicate silver chain, with a star-shaped flare of marquise-cut diamonds accenting the green stone.

He was a little embarrassed to be sending a girl jewelry, but he didn't have anything else he could send. Honestly, he hadn't even bought it himself; he'd found it among the jewels in the chest Shinji had given him, while looking for something suitable to give.

"Hey there, girl." With a wan smile, the Boy-Who-Lived lifted his arm, the Snowy Owl hooting as she saw her owner and fluttering over to perch on it with a ruffle of her wings. "Sorry I haven't been visiting more. Things have been…complicated."

The most profound of these complications being his sorting into Slytherin, of course. There were certainly times when things were almost overwhelming, when he envied his owl, wishing that he had wings and could just fly away.

…but he did not, and that was a bitter thing indeed.

And while he might kept her with him in the Slytherin Dungeons, he knew she would not have enjoyed the dank and cold, or the inability to just take flight and be free.

No animal like being imprisoned, after all.

There were other concerns, of course, like the fact that so recognizable a familiar would invite attacks from those who saw her presence as a point of weakness. Granted, most weren't foolish enough to test the Boy-Who-Lived, but…it was usually better to be safe than sorry, even if rumors and circumstance made it so that few would dare openly attack him.

As an infant, the Boy-Who-Lived had slain a Dark Lord, ending a war that had brought Magical Britain to its knees.

As the (presumed) Heir of Slytherin, he had used Parseltongue to order the snake that Malfoy sent against him to savage its conjurer instead – likely through a clever turn of phrase such that he could not be found culpable of a crime. Seeing as he was still at Hogwarts, and everyone knew how powerful Lucius Malfoy was in – and how close to the Ministry, most of the Slytherins saw this as a very impressive achievement indeed.

And if those weren't enough by themselves, there was the existence of the Stone Cutter Society. An elite group of individuals that one could not join without approval from the others, founded after the brutal killing of a troll on Halloween.

The very same troll that Quirrell had warned the students about, and _all_ the teachers had gone to confront, but had somehow missed. Frankly, most considered it an incontrovertible show of his power, since what _other_ reason could he have had for missing the Halloween Feast? Still, whatever had truly happened, he now had both a prefect of Ravenclaw (with the authority to give detentions) and the Weasley Twins – Hogwarts' most notorious pranksters – on his side, to say nothing about the boy from the east who had even destroyed Malfoy's wand.

So to most, Harry Potter was seen as a very dangerous wizard to cross, even in his first year. Thus, none would openly cross him, since the popular belief was that the less they interacted with him – the less he _remembered_ them, the safer they were.

The favor of the powerful was a fickle thing, after all.

But there were always a few who liked to test the mighty, those who took great joy in tearing down what others had built up, those who lurked in the shadows and waited for a weakness to reveal itself. And those were the ones Potter worried about.

Not the threats he could see, but the threats he couldn't.

He shook his head as he stroked Hedwig's feathers, eliciting a sort-of cooing sound from the avian, though the owl seemed to sniff at his attempts.

"I know, it's my fault," he mumbled. And he knew it was too. But… "Where are all the other owls?"

There were only a few left in the Owlery, their absence made apparent by the sight of the cold winter sky through the gaps that normally housed them. The students who'd gone home would certainly have taken their owls with them, but that wouldn't explain where all the _school owls_ had gone.

But Hedwig only hooted and ruffled her feathers, as if she couldn't be bothered with knowing where they were.

Or perhaps she was just cold, given how drafty the Owlery was, with its lack of windows. Harry had almost slipped on black ice a few times himself as he'd climbed the many flights of stairs to this place.

_Clunk!_

"Hm?" Harry glanced sharply towards the stairwell, body visibly tensing as he wondered who would be coming to the Owlery on Christmas Day.

Aside from him, that was.

At first, all he saw was a large package floating through the air, a chest almost as big as he was, wrapped in brown paper. A last minute Christmas gift? But Harry thought it unlikely, since written on the package in a neat, precise hand, was _Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley._

Harry blinked.

Why would someone send a package to the bank on Christmas Day, unless—

'_Ah.'_

—they could store valuable items in their vault. Growing up without much in the way of possessions, the Boy-Who-Lived tended to associate banks with money, not as a place to keep items safe. Though he supposed he should have, given that Nicolas Flamel had apparently kept the Philosopher's Stone there for some time.

But the package was clearing the stairwell now, with the people levitating it coming into view.

A black—blue haired boy, and a purple haired girl.

Shinji and Sokaris.

Harry visibly relaxed as he realized it was them and not an older Slytherin or Gryffindor, both of which might have a bone to pick with the Boy-Who-Lived and Heir of Slytherin.

"Good morning, Shinji, Sokaris."

Despite everything he'd shared with Sokaris, he wasn't comfortable using her first name – and now that he thought of it, he wasn't sure that even Shinji was either.

Something he found odd, as those two were often spoken of in one breath – well, when people weren't half-jokingly describing Shinji and the bushy-haired brunette – Granger – as the Prince and Princess of the Library.

"Merry Christmas, Harry Potter." Sokaris nodded to the boy, as she expertly lowered the package to the Owlery floor.

That was something that unsettled him slightly about the girl – her tendency to use his full name, since the only other person to do so was Professor Snape. People who didn't know him well called him "Potter", the Stone Cutters called him "Harry" (though Fred and George sometimes called him "Potty" or other less wonderful nicknames), and most of the teachers called him "Mr. Potter."

"Harry! Merry Christmas!" Shinji added, as he caught sight of the Boy-Who-Lived. "Got loads of presents this morning?"

"A few," Harry admitted. Less than most would imagine, he thought. "Thank you, both of you." He looked down then, smiling sheepishly. "I just wish I had more to…"

"No need. Your aid in our venture will be enough," the purple-haired girl replied, her expression as impassive as always. He'd only seen her smile – he thought – once, and there had been something dangerous in that expression, but looking at her, one would see only a model student.

Though maybe that explained why she didn't fall asleep in Binns' History of Magic class.

"Your sharing the _Book of Spells_ with us is more than enough," Shinji noted, the corners of his lips tugging upwards ever so slightly. "After all the trouble Quirrell gave us…"

"Yeah."

Harry watched as Shinji called down some of the few remaining owls, and nodded to the package.

The birds seemed to hoot and bark in protest as they saw yet _another_ parcel to send out, but they reluctantly let themselves be tied to the package.

After all, it _was_ what they were there for.

"…they don't seem to like you very much," the Boy-Who-Lived observed, noting that the owls had had no such reaction to him.

Hedwig gave a _hoot_ of agreement and fluttered back up to her perch.

"I just wanted to send Christmas gifts home. How was I supposed to know owls didn't like to travel long distances?" Shinji grumbled, as the owls finally took off. "What's it like having one, anyway?"

"Not too different from not having one, at least at Hogwarts," Harry admitted, casting a lonely glance up at Hedwig, who was perched imperiously in her alcove high above. "With everything we have to do, there's really no time for pets."

"Hm, I see." Shinji grunted. He'd mulled over the topic of a familiar for a while, but though one had its uses, it was probably best not to bring an owl if it was just going to be kept here. "I was going to owl you, but the Weasleys wanted to meet up with us in the Kitchens for a short talk. You up for it, Harry?"

"I suppose…but can we stop by the dungeons first?" Harry asked. "I want to…grab the _Book of Spells_ so I can show it to them."

The first thing in his life that he'd _won_ – even if the means and situation through which he'd won still troubled him. The first thing in his life he could really share with those he called his friends.

Shinji smiled.

"By all means."

* * *

><p>After some time and a few unplanned stops along the way, the trio managed to get to the kitchens, where the Weasley Twins had been obviously been waiting – if the display of Christmas-themed fireworks that went off as they entered was any indication.<p>

"Harry, mate—"

"—and wee little Matou—"

"—and Sokaris too!"

"Merry Christmas!" the Twins chorused, a display that somehow always managed to make the Boy-Who-Lived smile. He did wonder how on earth they managed to coordinate so perfectly and finish each other's sentences like that, but thought that maybe it was just something siblings could do.

He'd never had one, after all – Dudley was probably the closest thing he had before Hogwarts, and the thought of the overweight boy being related to him made his skin crawl.

"Merry Christmas," the three replied, nodding or so.

"We only have a few minutes—"

"—since Christmas is a time for family—"

"—but we wanted to say a few things."

"Mostly, we wanted to say thank you," one of the twins said – Fred, Harry thought, given that he was wearing a blue sweater with a large yellow F on it.

"This year, when Mum sent us her usual presents," the other – George – added, gesturing to his own blue sweater, this one with a yellow G knitted into it. "She sent each of us a box of homemade fudge."

"And a letter. She told us…"

"…she was proud of us—"

"—because of how we had fought bravely against the troll to protect other students," they finished together, their faces unusually – almost unnaturally – solemn. "She usually thinks of us as good for nothing troublemakers, and we'd half thought she given up on us. Knowing that she hasn't is a better gift than we've had…ever."

Neither Harry nor Shinji knew exactly what to say to that.

Sokaris, for that matter, just looked on. It wasn't her they were thanking, and to see the Weasley Twins looking less than entirely confident was somewhat amusing.

"Don't thank me," Shinji said, bowing his head slightly, a gesture that made Harry blink. He didn't think he'd heard Shinji turn down praise or gratitude – ever. "We are Stone Cutters, comrades, brothers-in-arms. Your success is mine, as mine is yours."

Harry, not knowing what else to do, just aped Shinji, bowing to the twins as well.

"Don't do that – if Gin-Gin or Mum ever hear of this—"

"—they'll go bonkers," George finished. "That being said, she also…asked us for a favor."

Fred pointed to a stack of books: _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, Modern Magical History, _and_ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century._

"Our Mum kind of wanted your autograph on one of these, to prove we actually were friends with the Boy-Who-Lived, and that you weren't as bad as Ronniekins made out in all those letters he wrote home about you being a dirty Slytherin who wouldn't give him the time of day," George said sheepishly.

Harry's ears burned – and he was pretty sure his cheeks were glowing too.

"I don't think he's quite gotten over having Potions with you Slytherins," Fred added. "Snape is a bit of a git to Gryffindors, you see. Only first year he seems to like in our House is Dunbar, and that's because she always does well and doesn't mind working with Slytherins. Never would have thought it, since she wants to be a beater, not—"

"—that there's much chance of that while we're still on the team—"

"—but what do you think, Harrikins – can you help a Stone Cutter out, oh great Heir of Slytherin?"

Harry sighed, but nodded as he made his way over to the pile and was handed a quill.

"Just tell me one thing," he asked.

"Anything at all—"

"—great Heir of Slytherin," the brothers said together, with a deep bow and flourish.

"How did Fred lose to George in Quirrell's challenge?" he asked.

"…I was actually wondering about that myself," Shinji added, looking at the twins curiously. "What did happen in your challenges anyway?"

Sokaris, who didn't have anything to add, just leaned against the wall and stared in that unnerving way of hers.

There was a bit of nervous laughter at that.

"…ha…funny you should ask, right brother of mine?"

"…haha…yes indeed, oh brother…"

Shinji gave them a fish-eyed stare, as the twins tried to resist, keeping a straight face, but relented with a groan.

"Fine. You drive a stiff bargain, Heir of Slytherin."

"What I would expect from a truly evil wizard."

The twins were silent for a time, though they were certainly not still, shooting looks, gestures, and who knew what else to one another. In the end though, they seemed to work out whatever dispute they had going on.

"I had to sneak past a bunch of obstacles – Devil's Snare, flying keys, giant chessmen, and potions and even a security troll to get a great red jewel," George began. He shook his head, shivering as he recalled the scenario. "That was...not so fun, brother of mine, especially when Professor Snape showed up and tried to kill me. I only got away because I threw a dungbomb at his face and ran."

"Better than having to break into Snape's personal ingredient stock," Fred retorted, looking around and making a sign of warding in case the aforementioned professor could somehow hear him. Neither were entirely convinced that Snape wasn't a dread practitioner of the Dark Arts himself, biding his time until he took up the mantle that his fallen master had left.

Still, it wasn't as if Shinji knew that – or Harry, for that matter.

"…shouldn't breaking into a storage room have been easier than sneaking past a troll and…everything else?" Shinji asked. Surely a professor's private stock wasn't _that_ well protected…right?

"Oho, do you want to tell him, brother of mine, or should I?"

"Your fight, your story, brother of mine."

"…fine," Fred muttered sourly, sighing. "Snape is a git, if that book is right about his private stores. Thing is a dungeon in its own right, with pitfalls, monsters, traps and curses – and that's after you get to it, slogging through rooms covered in slime, past the Room of Doom, and a room with a gaping hole in the middle. And of course, if you try to grab the wrong thing, he comes in like a winged bat and…"

He trailed off, with Shinji making a mental note to never get on Severus Snape's bad side.

"…well, now you know," Fred groused. "And that's how George won best in year." His face visibly brightened after that though, a trace of mischief stealing across his lips. "Though you should have seen how Ronniekins reacted when he saw the invisibility cloak we won. Begged us to let him borrow it, he did."

"But we said no," George filled in. "As much as we may be purveyors of mischief—"

"—and up to no good, we know what we're doing and how to not get caught without a cloak. Ickle Ronniekins…has a way to go first."

"Hillard is right. Cloaks are a trap until you know what you're doing—"

"—but in the hands of experienced troublemakers."

They laughed then, a sound so raucous and joyful that even Shinji and Harry couldn't help but smile. When they stopped…

"I signed the books."

Harry pushed the books over to them.

"Will you all be at the Feast after this?" he asked, looking to the Weasley Twins, but also to his other friends.

"Of course, though we'll mostly be with good old Perce and Ron," the Twins chorused.

"We will be there as well," Sokaris noted, speaking up, much to Shinji's surprise. He'd intended to ask her if she wanted to spend the evening with him again, perhaps at a picnic in the greenhouses or something, since neither of them liked crowds.

"Hoho, so the princess of Ravenclaw deigns to honor us lowly mortals with her presence at a meal!" Fred exclaimed. "How very unexpected, isn't that right, brother of mine?"

"Indeed, oh brother of mine!" George added, thinking about something. "Is this your first Christmas, Sokaris?"

"And if it is?"

"Why then, we need to celebrate! To the Great Hall!" the Twins shouted, posing heroically as they opened the door and gave melodramatic, sweeping bows. "Ladies first, after all."

Sokaris raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, simply walking out of the kitchen, with the others following in her wake.

* * *

><p>As expected, the Christmas Feast was spectacular – though Shinji would have probably used other words for the lunchtime affair.<p>

He'd almost kicked himself as he realized that he'd forgotten the many ways words could be interpreted in English. Dinner, for example, could mean either lunch or supper, depending on the culture and how big the meal was, or what time of day it was. In this case, it was the noon-time meal, and only Sokaris had kept him from embarrassing himself by missing it unintentionally.

Whether or not he'd have gone to it willingly otherwise was a different issue altogether, given the mountains of food – the rich, rich food that was served.

Hundreds of succulent, cider-roasted turkeys, skin a perfect shade of golden brown, trays garnished with tender glazed apples and pears. Each bit of meat was moist and juicy – and the stuffing, oh the stuffing was decadence indeed, made of bacon bits, onions, crushed apples, pecans, sage, and cornbread and not a little bit of butter.

Mountains of golden potatoes seasoned with parsley, quartered and roasted in garlic and olive oil until brown and crisp.

Platters of chipolatas – ground pork sausages seasoned with sage, thyme, and nutmeg – fresh off the grill.

Tureens of buttered peas and leeks, simmered in fragrant chicken stock.

Silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce.

And of course, every meter or so along the table, little cardboard tubes wrapped in festive paper, similar to the Christmas Crackers sometimes given out as party favours in the Commonwealth. As Harry explained, each person grabbed one of the end of a cracker and pulled – whereupon the cracker would emit a loud _crack_ (indeed, which is where the name cracker first came from!).

Usually, they contain a little plastic toy and a flimsy paper hat, but—

_BOOM!_

—it appeared the witchcraft based variant was a little different. For starters, it didn't crack, it BOOMED like a cannon, with a cloud of blue smoke poofing out into the room. When it cleared, the Japanese boy was less than amused to feel a _kabuto_—a samurai helmet—on his head, and a long, jet-black candle appearing in his hands.

"Huh." Shinji looked over at Harry, only to see the Boy-Who-Lived had apparently gotten equivalent items, as he was now sporting a tricorn hat and had his hands encumbered with what seemed like a chess set.

More _booms _and blasts went off, with Shinji noting the odd headwear appearing on everyone's heads.

Dumbledore, up at the high table, had donned a flowered bonnet. An increasingly drunk Hagrid was wearing the small green hat of a leprechaun.

The Weasleys Twins both had hats that kept trying to rise off their heads.

Professor Snape's head was now adorned by a jet black bowler hat – which wasn't too incongruous with his outfit of black.

Percy Weasley's, however, was topped with a much gaudier lime-green bowler hat, much to the amusement of his younger brothers.

And Sokaris' was adorned by a purple beret that matched the color of her eyes, something which made the girl tense very slightly before she turned her attention back to her food.

Overall, the meal was…raucous, with little time to talk, and much drunken carousing from the teachers. Interestingly, Professor Quirrell was not there – and Shinji didn't know if the man was in the castle at all – or had been – during winter break.

Still, when he left the table, Shinji was laden down with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a razor of some sort, a mortar and pestle, a juicing board, a Revealer…and a rubber duck, as well as several layers of hats.

He and Sokaris declined to join the others for a snowball fight, Shinji because he felt too bloated to move, and Sokaris presumably for other reasons.

He remembered dozing for some time, but when he woke up, he wasn't in his room. Or had he even made it to his room. The boy-from-the-east found himself in the middle of a village square – a place he recognized all too easily from the burnt out husks of the buildings around him, and the moon shining high above on a cloudless night.

"It is time to train," Sokaris' voice echoed in the gloom, with Shinji looking over to see what he thought was the dusky-skinned girl in the shadows of a ruin. "Wake now, Matou Shinji."

Somehow, the boy felt he should have expected this, as he levered himself to his feet.

Still, he couldn't complain.

"The _Book of Spells?" _he asked, mostly to confirm what he already suspected.

"Indeed. The scenario has been changed as well."

Sokaris robe-clad form stepped out of the gloom into the moonlight, her wand held like a rapier in one hand, with two vials held between the fingers of another.

"Potions, Sokaris?"

"Of course. You are not the only one with a hidden trick or two, Matou Shinji."

The boy smiled – perhaps he'd be able to see how his companion fought at last.

"I never thought I was."

Sokaris said nothing to that, save for two words addressed to the book.

"_Scenario start."_

* * *

><p>So things went until the coming of the New Year.<p>

During the day, Matou Shinji could mostly be found holed up in his study room trying out new combinations of ofuda – which proved to be something of an exercise in frustration, given how he had had no one to guide him. It had taken him the better part of two _months_ to learn the basics of the Art to begin with, and progressed was illusive.

In particular, elemental ofuda were only described in theory in _Of Ofuda and Origami, _with a caution that one should not attempt to use these before one knew of any elemental alignments one might possess. As such, what the book covered were the basics of Onmyoudou, with a suite of spells which any non-aligned Onmyouji could use – sealing, binding, warding, and basic offensive ofuda.

While Shinji knew that the Matou family was historically water aligned – hence the spells of absorption, decay and such in the family grimoires – he had no guarantee that this was true of _him_, and decided not to risk it. At best, it would be a waste of his time, with the ofuda failing to react at all. At worst – well, the book didn't go into detail, but Shinji could guess.

He'd seen his share of explosions and uncontrolled spells in Charms class, after all.

And so Shinji practiced making the types he was familiar with, attempting some basic arrays – repurposing his warding ofuda for use against a general counter-spell – though it wouldn't last long against fire. He would need an elemental alignment for that, which would probably have to wait till he returned to _Mahoutokoro_ in the summer.

There was only so much one could learn out of a book, after all.

(At least if that book wasn't the _Book of Spells_ or the _Book of Potions, _which were effectively teacher, practice area, and text all rolled into one).

That aside, he assumed the school there would have more information on ofuda, as opposed to runes, which were more used in the western world – or so he thought, since Aozaki Touko had simply been a visiting Professor of Ancient Runes.

At night, he would mostly be found exploring the castle and its grounds with Sokaris. Occasionally, Harry would join them – telling them of a Mirror of Erised he'd discovered in an empty classroom, which Sokaris had commented later had once been in the Room of Hidden Things. Sometimes, they would see the Weasley Twins wandering through the castle.

Every once in a while, the Stonecutters would work on a group scenario using the _Book of Spells_, though Sokaris never joined them for those.

Mostly though, they simply wandered the halls and ground after a meal in the kitchens, or could be found in a scenario for two, in the course of which, Shinji learned that Sokaris did not enjoy being touched casually, and that the wand he'd given her was in fact the first present she'd ever received.

And of course that she was faster than he was when it came to using her wand – not that he was surprised, since he tended to use ofuda if speed was of the essence.

But what surprised him most was her use of potions in combat – some of which he'd never seen before. Not that this was surprising, since as the person who'd lent Granger the _Book of Potions_, she likely had already learned what the book had to offer, but he did wonder where she brewed them.

Some of them were acid-green vials that exploded when hurled against an enemy.

Some were purple vials that removed spell effects.

Some weakened enemies so they could be easily finished off.

Some…well, there were more than few he hadn't seen her use yet, and frankly, he didn't feel he wanted to, since he didn't want to imagine what else she'd brewed up.

One thing was sure though – her interest in Alchemy was more than just theoretical, and he was glad she was on his side.

At least, he thought so.

* * *

><p>And then it was New Year's Eve, with Sokaris, Matou and Potter standing in the midst of what seemed like the desert.<p>

The sun was high overhead, the air dry and sharp, as sand dunes rolled away into the distance – about as far removed as one could get from winter in Scotland.

"What is this place?"

Shinji was curious. Yes, they'd come here using the _Book of Spells, _but he had no real idea as to why, except—

"I was born amidst the desert sands," Sokaris spoke, closing her eyes as she let the false sunlight wash over her. "Named for the triple god Ptah-Seker-Osiris – Sokar, some call him."

The creator and craftsman. The falcon connected with rebirth. And the god of the dead.

"You're…from Egypt," Harry surmised.

"Yes, Harry Potter…but I have not been home in a very long time," she said, her voice wavering slightly as she swallowed. "It is…wearisome. Ah, quite wearisome."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the Boy-Who-Lived replied, reaching out to steady her – though she sidestepped him.

"Do not touch me," she admonished, opening her eyes as body trembled. "Please."

"Alright…" he said, looking to Shinji, who just nodded. It was best not to go against her when she was in one of these fey moods, her eyes almost red in the light of the sun.

Harry was struck by the sense of longing in her voice – she'd always seemed unattached to anything or anyone, and yet here she was, missing…something, somewhere.

"It's the new year, Sokaris," Shinji offered, drawing out a few slips of paper he'd prepared for today, and holding out all five. "Make a wish, and take one of these."

"Hn…" Sokaris acknowledged, drawing one of the papers. "'Your wish will be granted?'"

"If I can help it." Shinji smiled slightly. "We're friends, after all."

"Hn."

"Harry, do you have a wish?"

"…world peace?"

"Heh," Sokaris grunted. "Knowing the nature of humanity, such is unlikely to occur."

"…I was joking."

"Ah. My apologies."

"I don't have a wish – but I am thankful. Thankful for magic, thankful for Hogwarts – thankful for friends," Harry said at last. "Though if I had one…well, you both know."

"Indeed, Harry Potter," Sokaris murmured, as the winds began to blow. "Hang fast to that wish, to that image of what you desire, for images themselves are magic. They are stories yet to be born, narratives yet to be woven, fairytales and ideals of the mind, touching the mind, the heart and the soul. Remember your wish, for it will be power, and one day you will become glorious."

The rest of the time was spent in silence, as the three sat and enjoyed the false warmth of a simulated sun till by mutual accord, till the first morning of the New Year dawned.


	23. Fleeting Halcyon Days

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 23.<strong> _Fleeting Halcyon Days_

With the end of the winter holidays, classwork returned with a vengeance. It seemed that way to students at every school, as if professors could not abide the thought of students enjoying themselves or having much in the way of free time – not when there was knowledge to be crammed into empty heads, and little time to do it in.

For the older students especially, Ordinary Wizarding Levels (OWLs) and Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests (NEWTs), loomed large in the horizon, and whatever time they might have otherwise spent on recreation were usually shunted towards study – practical or otherwise.

Even the Stone Cutters – the Weasley Twins included – were no exception to this, given that their _de facto_ leader had to take his OWLs, and that after the pre-holiday scenarios, there was a dawning awareness of how difficult it would be to fight Professor Quirrell if that was what it came down to. Now, by all means, the plan was to retrieve the Stone and turn it over to safe hands without encountering the man, but the fact of the matter was that any opportunity they had to claim the item was one Quirrell would share, given the requisite absence of Professor Dumbledore.

None of them thought he would be very pleased at the thought of several students trying to break into the Forbidden Corridor – especially if he caught them in the act. Presenting him with a _fait accompli_ on the other hand, and giving him the Stone for safe keeping – or returning it to Nicolas Flamel – was a different matter altogether, as it would prove their intentions beyond a shadow of a doubt.

But to do that – to accomplish that – they would need to devote themselves to studying their Arts.

Hillard and the Weasleys, for example, had been using the _Book of Spells_ for rather extensive training, spending what moments he had when he wasn't in class or on patrol running one scenario or another. Not that it was entirely for the good for the Stone Cutters, since the prefect thought of it as good review for his OWLs – Charms and Defense against the Dark Arts especially. Why, the book even demonstrated how to perform the _Patronus Charm_, one of the most difficult and powerful defensive charms known to wizardkind.

…not that Hillard was having an easy time, even with directions. At best, he managed to conjure a swirl of silver mist from his wand that would sometimes form up into a shield – an incorporeal Patronus – and that was when he really tried to focus.

He suspected that the memory he was using wasn't happy enough, but how to remedy that, he didn't know.

All he knew was that the charm had a long association with those fighting for lofty or noble causes – given that Patronuses were meant – as the name implied – to protect. Indeed, they _could not _be used for conquest or less than noble goals. This had been demonstrated quite graphically by Racizidian the Dark, the one wizard in history who had attempted to do so. Intending to conjure a Patronus to overwhelm an army of other Patronuses protecting a village from his depredations, he'd poured power through his wand and spoken _Expecto Patronum..._only for the magic to turn against him, with the Dark Wizard being swiftly devoured by maggots shooting from his wand.

The very fact that whether one could produce a Patronus was linked to both ability _and_ intent was part of why those who could produce corporeal Patronuses were often elected to high office within the Wizengamot and Ministry of Magic, as being able to do so generally marked them as acting for the Good, and as superior wizards and witches.

This last was prized indeed, given that most wizards – even those employed by the Ministry of Magic – were far less competent.

Why, many couldn't manage even a basic Shield Charm, to say nothing of more complex spells.

The few who could tended to be snapped up by the Unspeakables, Hit Wizards, or Aurors – with those joining the last often considered candidates for high office if they performed well, due to the primacy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement over all the others save the Department of Mysteries.

Wizarding society respected strength, no matter what that strength was used for – because most were not strong. That was why they jumped to hero worship, as they readily followed anyone who could protect them – or laid down their wands before someone they considered an enemy they could not beat.

That was simply the order of things.

One only had to look at how they had fallen over themselves offering Dumbledore many, many positions of leadership in the aftermath of his defeat of Grindelwald, or how they referred to Voldemort (even now) as the Dark Lord and as _You-Know-Who_, as if speaking his true name would conjure him forth.

Or as milder examples, why so many had simply fallen to the Death Eaters and why the Order of the Phoenix had even been necessary.

As a student of history, Hillard knew that Quirrell was right. While the man might well be a Dark Wizard, he was known for being brilliant in his own right.

Truly, there were two types of wizards: those who gained power – and those too weak to even try.

Hillard was determined to become one of the powerful – to lead instead of follow.

Like Percy Weasley, he had read _Prefects who Gained Power, _but he did not just want to work for the Ministry and hobnob his way to the top – he wanted to be recognized for his skill – to perhaps one day become Minister of Magic.

And while he was generally a good prefect, with his first priority being the welfare of the students of Hogwarts, he couldn't deny that there was a part of him that wanted more – a part of him that longed for recognition.

Not unlike the Weasley Twins, at that, given that much of their pranking was driven by a desire for attention that they simply didn't get in a family of so many children. Indeed, many of their antics – even their choreographed routines of pretending to be one another or finishing each other's sentences – could be taken as attempts to be noticed for who they were – to gain reputation and notoriety in their own right.

In that sense, Hillard sympathized with them, even though he was often kinder to their victims, as he'd been on the receiving end of their tender mercies before, in a series of incidents that he had no desire to speak of even now.

Still, they made useful – if difficult – opponents to practice against, with the two of them combining against him in duels, forcing him to be _creative_ in order to stand a chance.

He was older and had a wider repertoire of spells, yes, but they were underhanded, devious, and well, there were two of them, so he couldn't defend against both at once with the standard Shield Charm. In some matches, he had to resort to using _Protego Totalum_, an area defense spell, to make sure they couldn't sneak up on him from behind.

Sometimes they ran scenarios together, making sure they could work as a team, with Hillard making sure to teach them the basic Shield and Stunning Charms.

Sometimes they rained curses and hexes upon his shields, testing his endurance and his ability to focus under pressure – with him returning the favor to make sure they had learned their charms well.

And sometimes, they dueled with one of the Twins under an invisibility cloak, the other out in the open, and Hillard under a Disillusionment Charm, practicing situational awareness and the speed of their draws. In those situations, it would be considered a win for the Twins if they managed to stun Hillard before he stunned one of them, a draw if he managed to stun one before he went down, and a loss if he managed to stun both of them – which to their chagrin had happened a number of times.

Harry and Shinji would join them for some of these more unorthodox training scenarios, and were usually put on a team of their own to simulate the chaos of battle.

Their role was to cast the Disarming Charm or otherwise try to incapacitate the others from stealth, attempts which were met with varying degrees of success, given that Hillard and the Twins had studied their scenarios and had a very healthy respect for the capabilities of their younger associates.

And as demonstrated by the number of times Shinji was rendered unconscious, the versatility of his Art didn't guarantee victory if he either wasn't given the opportunity to use it, or if his opponent was able to overpower him.

Hence the focus on stealth tactics, given that the Stone Cutters hoped to avoid the Defense Professor in their run for the Stone, and assumed that if they engaged him at all, it would be from stealth, as they stood no chance in an open confrontation.

Say what one might about honor and chivalry, discretion was often the better part of valor.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, both Hillard and the Twins had other duties that precluded them from spending every waking moment training, so often, Shinji and Harry had to fend for themselves.<p>

While he might be a Stone Cutter and prankster, Hillard _was_ still a prefect, with the responsibilities thereof, and there was only so much time he could devote to other hobbies and have Professor Flitwick – or his fellow prefects - turn a blind eye.

As for the Weasleys, they had the misfortune to suffer under the cruel hand of Captain Oliver Wood of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. The Scottish Keeper was known to be a harsh taskmaster at the best of times, and had become harsher still after the Gryffindor-Slytherin match had made his team a laughingstock.

Even Lee Jordan, the student commentator who was known for his pro-Gryffindor bias, hadn't been able to find anything redeeming in that match, save the fact that the Twins had brought down the Slytherin captain with their Bludgers, prompting the other team to bring the match mercifully to an end.

And though some protested such actions, they were simply part of the Quidditch experience. Wood himself had taken a Bludger to the head two minutes into his first game, only to wake up a week later in the hospital wing. Besides, as the Twins were quick to point out, Slytherin had started it by trying to take the Gryffindor Seeker – Katie Bell – out of action.

To be perfectly fair to the girl, she was decent in the role – and had been the best candidate among those who had tried out - but she far preferred being a Chaser and scoring goals to Seeking, and the near miss in her first match, with the entire school watching, had unnerved her.

Wood had told her – like he had everyone else – about his first tête-à-tête with a Bludger, and as a result, after one had grazed the back of her head, she'd spent more time watching the Beaters and the Bludgers than watching for the Golden Snitch.

But while Wood understood this intellectually, the boy was still crushed by the severity of the loss, especially as _he_ had been the Keeper, but had been outplayed by Slytherin's Chasers. So, after the temporary reprieve of the winter holidays, he had been merciless to his team, with practices sometimes three – or four – days a week.

There was no give in the man, and he thought that maybe – _maybe_ if they pulled off a grand victory against Hufflepuff, Gryffindor might stand a chance of finally attaining the House Cup. But the sort of win Wood sought didn't come every day. It required the team to work together like a well-oiled machine, as if each player was part of a far greater organism, perfectly coordinating their efforts and exertions towards one grand, unified purpose.

Such a thing generally needed enormous amounts of discipline, training, and _dedication_ – or of course, a quick dose of _Felix Felicis_, though use of the latter was hardly fair and had been banned from all competitive events (except potion-making tournaments) for good reason.

But Matou Shinji and Harry Potter had not been idle in the absence of their fellows, and in what little time they had outside of class, they had continued to work on what they were best at.

Shinji had continued to work on his _ofuda, _managing to construct some arrays, with Harry testing how effective they were in duels, how effective they could be at blocking spells, and what strategies could be used if the enemy did use something like _Incendio _against them – or the full body flame ability that the Weasleys had cursed him with once, using a runic circle written in invisible ink.

And while the _Book of Spells_ did cover the Flame-Freezing Charm, it had also been marked as fairly sophisticated magic that the Matou boy didn't think he was up to learning yet, so he'd been forced to improvise.

His search hadn't been entirely fruitless either, as he'd found a couple of techniques that showed some promise.

When used in an array with other _ofuda_, the warding type would burn off first before fire touched the others, allowing the spell one wanted to use to get closer.

And of course, there was always filling offensive _ofuda_ to the brim with prana and launching them with the _expectation_ that the enemy would counter, resulting in an explosion of heat and light that would disorient an enemy.

Flashbangs didn't need to hit to be effective, after all, and once disoriented, an enemy would be much easier to disable.

Or so he hoped, though he knew his _ofuda_ wouldn't penetrate a Shield Charm, unless he released enough of them at once to briefly collapse one with sheer concussive force (since they were much less resilient against physical damage as opposed to magical attacks). If he did that, then he could certainly use another to follow up on the opening that had been made.

…provided that his opponent wasn't quick enough to stop it.

Not that Shinji had any standard to measure against, except what he'd seen from Flitwick and Quirrell during the exhibition duel. Despite what he allowed other students to think, he couldn't cast non-verbal conventional spells, and while his skill with basic ofuda offset this to a degree, his limited repertoire made him predictable.

Frankly, the main benefits of non-verbal casting wasn't as much increased speed – though it did grant that – as much as unpredictability. Without a verbal warning of what kind of magic one was about to perform, an opponent would have less time to react, and no clear indication of how to respond.

Something which, sadly, wasn't the case when one saw strips of paper streaming from an opponent's sleeves.

Against those, there was a simple defense – and Quirrell, it seemed, knew this – given how Harry's scenario had prominently featured using ofuda for attack and defense.

He hoped that the new additions to his arsenal – the arrays he had crafted – would be enough if it came down to it, but he didn't know for sure if this was the case. Harry, thankfully, had volunteered to lend him his Invisibility Cloak if and when the raid on the Stone ever occurred, so at least Shinji would have the advantage of starting concealed.

That would have to be enough, because if it wasn't…

Well, Shinji didn't want to think about that.

* * *

><p>Still, as endless rain replaced the snow upon the ground, Shinji found himself pensive. He and the other Stone Cutters had talked over the plan – something that they still weren't entirely happy with with, given how little they knew about the defenses protecting the Stone.<p>

And they realized something else as well.

If Dumbledore was gone and classes weren't still in session, they had to find some way of keeping Professor Quirrell from going after the Stone either before they did, or while they were attempting to retrieve the artifact, as the last thing they wanted was to be struggling against any traps, only to be ambushed.

Alas, the options they had to distract the man were not the most promising.

The Weasley Twins had advanced the notion of asking Peeves for a distraction, seeing as he had helped in the encounter with the troll and did like positive attention.

Hillard had suggested that he could go to the Defense Professor and ask about some advanced material from the _Book of Spells_, given that he did have the excuse of OWLs at the end of the year, and that he genuinely _did_ want to learn how to cast a Patronus.

A corporeal Patronus if possible, though he didn't think he'd be able to pull _that_ off before his exams.

And Shinji…well, he hadn't suggested anything out loud, but he wondered if Hermione would be willing to ask Professor Quirrell some detailed questions for review and revision, since she was something of a perfectionist.

None of them even considered trying to ambush Quirrell, as they considered that an exercise in futility. And what would their excuse be if some other teacher came upon them in the midst of trying to bring down the Dark Wizard?

They would have none, and assaulting a Professor carried very heavy penalties indeed.

So they would have to try and avoid him, or delay him, as best they could, as they had no guarantee of safety down below. While the walls and grounds of Hogwarts were guarded by many ancient spells and charms to ensure the bodily and mental safety of those who dwell within them, but somehow, the Stone Cutters were not convinced that the Forbidden Corridor and what it concealed had the same protections, given Dumbledore's warning about painful death.

They assumed the first defense – the Cerberus – was already compromised by Quirrell, or would be, given Hagrid's tendency to talk about what he wasn't supposed to.

Quirrell's defense, they thought might be a Troll of some kind, but had no idea what. Perhaps a Security Troll or some such, something well trained enough that the Defense Professor could order it to stand aside.

They rather thought Snape's might involve Potions of some sort (surprise, surprise), but not what it might be. There were plenty of ways that subtle science could be used as an obstacle. Perhaps, as had been the case in George's scenario, they would have to choose a potion to drink before passing through a trial of flames. Perhaps a challenger might have be forced to choose between colorless, odorless toxins, in which case, the trap might be that one would have needed to take a bezoar or antidote ahead of time if one didn't want to die. Perhaps Snape, the sinister man that he was, had prepared something else instead – an enchanted container filled with some mysterious potion that induced fear, delirium, and weakness, with the Stone hidden at its bottom.

Perhaps he would even have worked together with another professor to ensure one could not just reach through the potion, and that it could not be vanished, parted, scooped up, siphoned away, Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made to change its nature in any way – so that the only way to the Stone was drinking all of it.

Of all the Professors at Hogwarts, none struck them as being more cruel and sadistic than Professor Snape, after all.

But well, if that was the last defense, they'd simply retreat, as such a defense would undoubtedly be enough to keep the Philosopher's Stone safe…so long as the Defense Professor didn't use the Imperius Curse to force someone to drink the potion for him.

…which he might very well do to one of them if he caught them, now that they thought about it.

Such was just another layer of risk complication to this whole enterprise, which had sounded so simple when Sokaris had first proposed it.

Still, they had a bone to pick with the Defense Professor, given the events which had brought them all together, and since Harry was grimly resolved to stop the Dark Wizard from stealing the Stone one way or another – with or without them – they figured it might as well be _with_ them, as it wouldn't do for the Boy-Who-Lived to become the Boy-Who-Died-in-Vain.

Shinji agreed that it was possible that Quirrell was working for Lord Voldemort, as he couldn't think of another patron the Dark Wizard might have.

If he _was_ Dark, at least.

Thinking back, it was disconcerting how all they really had to go on was Sokaris' word, the suspicious circumstances, and the fact a Troll had entered Hogwarts, when by all rights, the Defense Professor should have been able to stop it, and his apparent knowledge that Harry was a Parselmouth.

At least he knew Sokaris' desire to keep the Philosopher's Stone from falling into the wrong hands – or worse, from being destroyed - was genuine. In one of the few unguarded moments she'd shown him, her concern for the artifact had been vehement, and her _anger_ at the thought of the Stone being destroyed – that it was being used in a trap at all – had been palpable.

After this was all over, he would have to make an effort to find out more about the girl he owed a debt to, since there were a few things that didn't add up.

'_Like her knowledge of Potions, though she _did_ study from the _Book of Potions_ before she gave it to Granger.'_

He didn't think that was it though, since she'd displayed ability at the craft at the very beginning of the year, before she would have ever gotten a chance to open that book. Perhaps her family was simply talented in Potions? She was an heiress of an old family, an admission backed by the Chimera scale core of her wand…

If her family had once gone to Hogwarts, it might also explain how she knew of the Room of Hidden Things when others didn't. She'd never mentioned how she found it, and he didn't think she was the type of person to simply wander aimlessly.

She lived a very purpose-driven life.

Almost as single-minded as a magus, though if she was using witchcraft, she couldn't be one. After all, based on his working theory, one needed to be human to have magic circuits, while a magic core spoke of inhuman influence. The only way one could _possibly_ use both was if one happened to be a Dead Apostle or something else that had once been human, and frankly, the thought was so ridiculous as to be absurd.

Sokaris was a good person, despite her coldness to most people, and her intolerance for idiocy.

Shinji sighed, thinking the stress must be getting to him if he was having these kinds of thoughts already.

It was just…there was so much to do. Ofuda to make, spells to revise, dueling techniques to master, books to read.

As of yet, he hadn't even finished sorting through the Room of Hidden Things for what he wanted, which was why he hadn't shared the treasure's whereabouts with anyone else quite yet. The moment he let one of the other Stone Cutters know about it was the moment when that treasure – _his_ and Sokaris' treasure – would become their treasure.

And while he could certainly see the merits of their organization having funding that wasn't tied to the school budget, he wanted to finish picking out what he wanted first.

He was about to work on making more _ofuda _once again when, w_ith_ a pop, a steaming mug of creamy hot chocolate laden with toasted marshmallows appeared on his desk.

Huh.

He'd almost forgotten it was Valentine's Day. But the only person who would think to send him something from the kitchens was…Sokaris?

Had he told her about his country's traditions? He supposed he must have.

It was hard to remember after a long week of classes and extracurricular study, when they'd been so focused on the matter of the coming…well, heist, was the only way to put it.

Still, he wasn't about to turn down a drink that smelled so deliciously chocolate-y, so he picked up the mug and sipped.

The warmth hit him, relaxed him, flowed through him, with each warm sip tasting of rich, dark chocolate mixed with notes of caramelized, vanilla-scented marshmallows. It wasn't overpowering at all, but creamy, with a foamy layer of melted marshmallowy goodness accented by the larger marshmallow bites.

And of course, there was a note, which just like the girl herself, was simple and to the point.

_Matou,_

_Come to the Common Room. I believe Granger has a present for you. _

_Sokaris._

Well, he supposed he might as well take a break, seeing as his mind had begun to wander, and the common room was just a corridor away. No sense in wasting good cocoa though, he thought, so he took the mug with him, continuing to nurse it as he made his way outside.

* * *

><p>Hermione Granger was nervous, though perhaps she had a right to be, given the fact that she was holding a wrapped box of handmade chocolate truffles. It had been more than a little embarrassing asking Prefect Clearwater to get her some chocolate, condensed milk, vanilla, and sea salt from Hogsmeade during her last visit, since the older girl had smiled knowingly, saying she was sure Matou would enjoy them.<p>

Blushing, she'd insisted that Clearwater had the wrong idea – that she'd just read that it was customary in Japan for girls to give chocolates to boys they associated with on Valentine's Day, and it wasn't like she had any special feelings for the boy.

Penelope had simply smiled and nodded, thinking that young love could be so very _cute_, and had gotten her the ingredients she asked for.

Which had led to the next hurdle – convincing Zygmunt Budge, the egotistical potioneer whose spirit possessed the _Book of Potions_ – to let her use his Hopping Cauldron to well…cook with.

He'd sputtered and wailed and shouted, utterly furious that she would use his supplies for…chocolate making, especially as he couldn't taste any, instead of for the noble art of Potion-making.

She wouldn't have turned to him if she had a choice, but it wasn't like she could use the kitchens of Hogwarts for her own personal benefit, and so had swallowed her pride, almost begging the man to let her cook, since she had no other options. And…he'd grudgingly allowed it, as he knew what a stifling place Hogwarts could be for a creative and brilliant mind – even if she wasn't the sort of genius he liked to work with.

…and truth be told he'd used the cauldron to cook soups and stews himself, so it wasn't like he had much room to argue on _those_ grounds. Besides, young people had rather _undignified _foibles to work out, and far better that he let his student make chocolate than resort to something crude like Love Potions.

The core had been a melted mix of semi-sweet and bittersweet chocolates, with a can of condensed milk and a hint of vanilla added for flavor, stirred and folded until all the chocolate and milk had come together in a mix with a marshmallow texture.

From there, Zygmunt Budge had shown a bit more enthusiasm, with his shade chilling the mix – which would become the core of the truffles, and conjuring a second (more conventional) cauldron for her to melt the milk chocolate wafers she intended to use as a coating.

She'd used the Levitation Charm to drop the truffles, one by one, into the melted chocolate and had spooned more chocolate over the top to make sure the truffles were all coated, before retrieving the truffle with a fork and sprinkling a little sea salt on each.

The result, like everything else the great potioneer had a hand in now, was quite decent by any standard, and superb for a first attempt: the sea-salt truffles had a deep, rich chocolate flavor, and almost melted in one's mouth for a short of pure, western decadence in every bite.

She knew – she'd tried one.

She only hoped Matou would like them too.

And here he was now, emerging from his study room with…a mug of hot chocolate?

Hermione blinked, feeling that sudden tightness in her chest. Why…why did seeing him with other chocolate make her feel so flustered.

"Hello Hermione." He smiled at her, noticing the package in her hand. "Sokaris said you have something for me?"

Sokaris.

The brunette swallowed, a terrible sense of certainty filling her as her eyes darted to the steaming mug in his hands.

Sokaris had given him chocolate too.

Were they…was she…

No. No. She wouldn't think about it.

"T-these are for you," she said, stepping forward and thrusting the package out at him. "I…I made you some chocolate. Since its tradition in your homeland."

Shinji stepped forward and took the package, unwrapping it to see chocolate truffles, with a fresh just made scent.

"You…made these, for me?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse. The boy was honestly a little touched that she would take the time to look up his country's traditions, especially when they were friends – but not particularly great friends. "Thank you."

Even so, it was…nice to get even _giri-choco_, what were called obligation chocolates in Japan, given to friends and close associates on Valentine's Day, as opposed the _honmei-choco_ or sweetheart chocolates given to a loved one.

"I just thought you would be missing your home, since you spent Christmas at the castle." Hermione said, looking anywhere but at Matou's softly smiling face. "It's not…as if there's any special meaning to them."

"Thank you," Shinji repeated, as he popped one of the morsels into his mouth and shivered in pleasure. "Its…good."

He took one and offered it to her, only to be rewarded by a fierce blush.

Such would be one of the last good memories Matou Shinji had of his first year of Hogwarts, before everything came to a head – and went disastrously wrong.


	24. Thieves in the Night

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 24.<strong> _Thieves in the Night_

They moved like cloaked shadows through the night, a score strong. Trained, disciplined, hardened by confrontations with the worst that Wizarding society had to offer, they made their way towards the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, led by two men. The first was a portly little man with rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, wearing a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black cloak, pointed purple boots and a lime green bowler hat. The second was a tall man clad all in black, with pale blond hair and cold grey eyes, carrying a walking stick with a snake head.

But all of them were grim as they approached their designated target – a hut on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, with flames shooting out of a still-lit window.

"We have visual confirmation, Minister. Moving to surround target location."

"Good," the portly man repeated, speaking into one of those two-way mirrors that were all the rage once. "Remember, the subject is known to be dangerous, and his half-giant blood lets him resist Stunners."

"Permission to use deadly force then?"

"Granted, if necessary. Stand by," the Minister grunted, putting away the mirror into one of his pockets. He glanced up into the clear night sky, where the silhouettes of a broom-riding Auror squadron trailed the ground party silently.

Cornelius Fudge mopped his brow with a handkerchief and took a deep breath, turning to his companion.

"Lucius, are you sure about this?"

"Quite sure," the blond man replied a cool, silky tone of voice. "Both my son and the Defense Professor of Hogwarts have reported the presence of a dragon at Hogwarts, a clear threat to the students. And as Minister, you know better than anyone else how dragon breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks' Convention of 1709. We can't allow it to seem that Dumbledore and his associates are above the law, now can we, Cornelius?"

"Ah, no, you're quite right, Lucius."

The Minister of Magic, the man who held the highest office in Wizarding Britain, was less than entirely confident about this operation, but he realized the political capital it would gain him to have acted against a threat to his nation's youth. Besides which, Rubeus Hagrid was no innocent – after all, the man had been involved in the Monster of Slytherin incident in 1943, where a Muggleborn had died, and had been expelled for it.

Only the intervention of then Headmaster, Armando Dippet, under the sway of Albus Dumbledore, had allowed him to remain at Hogwarts as Keeper of Keys and Grounds, where it seemed his predilection for monstrous things had not gone away.

Still, a _dragon_ of all things.

Every wizard knew that those _beasts_ could not be tamed, and that even those that appeared so would eventually go feral, escaping and being found by Muggles. Hence, for the last two-hundred and eighty-three years, it had been illegal for a wizard to raise dragons – not that whether something was legal or not had any bearing on whether a Dark Wizard would do them.

Being honest, he was nervous to be here, on what was effectively Albus Dumbledore's private domain, but the presence of Lucius Malfoy, the Chairman of Hogwarts' Board of Governors, along with a full squadron of Aurors and Hit Wizards, helped to steady him.

If the reports were accurate, and there was a dragon, then those wands would be needed, as stunning a dragon alone took over a dozen wizards – and it wouldn't just be the dragon they'd need to stun if Hagrid resisted.

As criminals almost always did, really.

But they'd reached the groundkeeper's house now, and as they were the force on the side of the law, it made sense to give the accused a chance to surrender peacefully.

So they knocked.

Seconds later, the door was flung open, with the two men finding themselves face-to-face with a half-giant aiming a crossbow directly at them, his beetle-black eyes flashing over his great bristling beard.

Lucius Malfoy didn't waste time with niceties – not with a weapon pointed at him. He roughly pulled the Minister aside, with the poor man almost falling on his arse, and pressed the release switch on his walking stick, the top – his wand – sliding free of the rest.

"_Stupefy!_" he shouted, a fierce bolt of crimson light shooting from his wand towards the immense form of the shaggy haired half-giant.

_Whump!_

Perhaps it was in shock at the sudden attack, but the crossbow loosed its quarrel, the bolt heading right for the Minister – who could only watch in horror as it sped towards him – before it was blasted from the air by a well-timed spell.

'_I have to give those Aurors a raise…'_

"Take him down!" the order came from above, and a torrent of azure light erupted, a score and a dozen blue beams tearing apart the night – and the groundkeeper's house, revealing a livid half-giant, his bloodhound – and what he had been trying to hide: a juvenile Norwegian Ridgeback.

Seeing these, the squadron leader shifted targets, with the next spells that came raining down being jets of crimson light – aimed at both Fang and the young dragon.

They poured down _en masse, _laying the creatures low in a brutally powerful volley.

"Leave them alone!" Hagrid roared in fury, leaping at one of the wizards on the ground who had helped to stun his pets.

Seizing the culprit bodily, he lifted the culprit bodily from the ground and threw him, with man flying what looked like five meters and falling to the ground with a sickening crack. The Hit Wizard didn't move again after that.

"Stand down, Hagrid!" a voice barked out. "You're only making this worse on yourself"

"No and be damned with yeh. Yeh won' take me like this, Dawlish!" the half-giant cried out, moving to snatch up yet another of the men.

"_Impedimenta!"_ the man screamed, the small jet of turquoise light having negligible effect – until it was joined by an echo of thirty other voices screaming the same, the combined force of the volley slamming into Hagrid and throwing him backwards.

"Now, lads! _Stupefy_!" the lead Auror called, as blood-red beams blasted the prone half-giant before he could right himself, slamming into him over and over and over.

Hagrid gave a strangled half-cry, futilely trying to rise in spite of the volume of spell fire crashing into him second after second, but crumpled under the sustained assault, his form going motionless at last.

Unnoticed by them, the front doors of the castle had opened, with light spilling out on to the dark lawn and a single long black shadow rippling across it.

"How dare you!" the figure shouted as she ran, wand in hand. "How dare you!"

"Switch target, ground forces only."

"Leave him alone! Alone, I say!" the figure shouted in the darkness – before the form of what was revealed to be Professor McGonagall was lifted bodily in the air by the impact of five Stunners shot from the figures around the ruins of the cabin.

For a moment she looked luminous, illuminated by an eerie red glow, then was lifted right off her feet, landed hard on her back, and moved no more.

They waited in case any others would reveal themselves, but there were none.

"Stand down, situation is secure," the lead Auror spoke, with a number of those on the ground moving to take custody of the prisoners.

Hagrid and his boarhound were put into enchanted chains and levitated away by a number of the Aurors and Hit Wizards, who did not take kindly to things such as assassination attempts on the Minister, people raising dangerous creatures like dragons around young children, and least of all, attacks on their fellows. His destination would be Azkaban, pending trial before the Wizengamot.

The Norwegian Ridgeback had been taken by most of the rest, as it was both evidence of Hagrid's crime and an endangered creature that by treaty would need to be shipped off to the Romanian Dragon Preserve – or euthanized if there was no room there.

As for Minerva McGonagall, who had attempted to intervene in the apprehension of the suspect, she would be taken to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to be treated, as several stunning spells to the chest could be quite damaging – even lethal – to an older human, but once stable, would be moved to the Ministry's holding cells for trial for _Obstructing the administration of justice._

It had all been very quick – no more than a few minutes, with Fudge himself not casting any spells at all.

"Are you alright, sir?" the lead Auror – Dawlish – asked as he brought his broom down beside the portly Minister and Lucius Malfoy. "Both sirs, that is."

"Merlin's beard. I knew he had a record, but I never expected him to open the door with a weapon and murder in his eyes," Fudge murmured, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd expected the man to be reasonable and bow to authority like any good wizard, instead of attacking Aurors and Hit Wizards.

"Sir, this is why we normally handle apprehension of suspects," Dawlish said with some reproach. "While we of course…respect…your courage, Minister, this is why you _have _a Department of Magical Law Enforcement – so you don't have to put yourself in danger."

"I'll…keep that in mind. Thank you...Auror."

Yes, Fudge definitely owed them a raise – or two.

"And you, Mister Malfoy, are you unhurt as well?" Dawlish asked the other man, summoning the other end of the man's walking stick and handing it to him. "Thank you for your quick action in protecting the Minister."

"It was my pleasure as a loyal citizen of Wizarding Britain," the Malfoy patriarch replied, reassembling his staff. "For without the Minister and the Law, what do we have as a society?"

Dawlish stared hard at Malfoy for a second but said nothing as he turned away.

"Minister, your orders?" the Auror inquired. "We have accomplished our primary objective of apprehending Rubeus Hagrid, but most of the men are needed to transport the prisoners and the wounded. Shall I use the Hit Wizards for that purpose?"

"Ah, yes. That will be fine," Fudge answered, mopping his brow again. What else did he need to do while at Hogwarts? Ah…right. "As for what's next, we need to see Dumbledore. Aurors only for this one. You can send the Hit Wizards off – no need to intimidate the man into doing something rash."

"As you wish, Minister."

* * *

><p>Shortly thereafter, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, found himself in his office with several unexpected – and quite unwelcome – guests: Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy, the Chairman of the Board of Governors, and a squadron of Aurors.<p>

He was most, most displeased, his blue eyes full of an unusual fire.

"Cornelius, this was entirely uncalled for!" the Headmaster spoke forcefully, upon being informed of what had transpired only half an hour earlier. His aura seemed to surge, and for a moment, Cornelius Fudge was reminded that this was the man who had defeated Gellert Grindelwald and was the only wizard You-Know-Who had ever feared. "Why was I not informed of this _before_ you brought an army to Hogwarts?"

"Headmaster, be reasonable. Suspects are never given warning before a raid," Lucius Malfoy answered, a thin, tight smile on his face. "Why, the Ministry has never warned me before searching my manor for Dark Objects."

The presence of someone willing to stand up to Dumbledore seemed to stiffen the Minister's spine as he remembered who the leader of Wizarding Britain was, and who was merely a Headmaster, even if Dumbledore had once been the public's first choice for Minister.

"This is all bad business, Albus," the Minister added uncomfortably, unable to meet the Headmaster's eyes as he looked instead at the many instruments and portraits in the Headmaster's office, his lime green bowler under his arm. "Very bad business. The affair with the troll was one thing - Arthur Weasley was quite upset that two of his children were put in mortal danger, you know. And after being tipped off about an illegal dragon breeding operation here at Hogwarts – well, Hagrid's record's against him."

"I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my full confidence," said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge. "I would trust the man with my life."

"A trust some would find questionable after he was expelled for his involvement in the death of a student nearly fifty years ago," Lucius cut in, his cold grey eyes not leaving Dumbledore's bright blue. "That incident involved a dangerous beast as well, as I recall."

"I still believe Hagrid was innocent of wrongdoing in that matter, Lucius."

"A curious thing, when a prefect - Tom Riddle, I believe the name was, gave eyewitness testimony as to his actions in protecting a monster – and suffering the half-giant's assault," Malfoy said reproachfully. "And yet you still defend the…man, even now."

Dumbledore had some very choice things he wanted to say about Tom Marvolo Riddle, the orphan who had later become the darkest wizard in the history of Magical Britain, but held his tongue. None of the men here knew of Voldemort's past as a half-blood or an orphan, and mentioning it now would only hurt his cause.

"At any rate, what happened fifty years ago is irrelevant, Albus," Fudge continued, his expression hardening. "Our team of Aurors has taken him into custody, after catching him with a young dragon in his house, a clear violation of our laws."

"Indeed," Lucius Malfoy chimed in, eager to support Fudge's point. "Headmaster, perhaps you should remember that the law applies to everyone. Even you and those under your protection." He paused, staring at the old, powerful wizard. "Or should I say especially? After all, you are responsible for the safety of our children, and their future."

"Lucius, Cornelius, of course I care about the safety of the students—"

"But what, Albus?" the Minister asked, though he had his suspicions. "You turned down the position of Minister – many times – because you said that the students of Hogwarts were your priority. At the time, we accepted that, though you could have done so much for our society." Fudge's pudgy face flushed scarlet, recalling the events that led up to his own election. "Yet here we are, finding that you protect a man whose history suggests he is a threat to the very students you claim are your priority? I have the utmost respect for you, Albus, but Hogwarts is a school – not your personal fiefdom! You and yours answer to the Ministry."

"And to the Board of Governors, who are most concerned about the recent happenings at Hogwarts," Lucius added smoothly, his voice like ice to Fudge's fire. "Certainly, they will be quite interested to hear why you did not contact the Ministry yourself about the dragon, or why Rubeus Hagrid was not simply allowed to stay at Hogwarts – on your advice – for these many years, but put in charge of its beasts and its grounds, given free rein to go wherever he wished. Why, it was even reported that he – this menace to society – was the very person you sent to escort Harry Potter, the hero who defeated the Dark Lord and liberated those of us who were under the Imperius Curse, to Diagon Alley for school supplies. Did you run out of competent teachers, perhaps?"

"Now see here, Lucius—"

"He has a point, Albus."

And it was true.

For in his private moments, Dumbledore would admit to himself that power was his one true weakness and temptation. _That_ was why he had chosen to stay a professor at Hogwarts – not because he greatly loved dealing with students, though he thought he was a fair teacher, but because it was _safer_ for him to be at Hogwarts. Deep down, he knew he was no different from Gindelwald. The same desire for conquest and authority plagued him…and he feared that if he allowed himself to claim the title of Minister, it wouldn't be enough for him.

No. It was better for him to remain at Hogwarts, where he wouldn't invoke the wrath of the Association and the other groups with reason to oppose him. This was the penance he paid for his sins, for Ariana's death, for the many people he'd failed because of his fears.

The hat had judged him a Gryffindor while he was at Hogwarts. Had it judged him too soon? Should he have instead ended up in Slytherin like the other ambitious ones – the ones he still came down harder on to this day because they reminded him of himself and the sins he'd committed?

"What else happened?" he asked, more subdued. The damage had already been done – the Ministry's operatives had come like thieves in the night, without warning. And it was clear that Fudge and Malfoy were in accord, so belligerence wouldn't help, not with a _fait accompli_ under their belts.

"Your Deputy Headmistress has been taken to St. Mungo's for injuries sustained while attempting to interfere with an official Ministry operation," Malfoy said blandly. "For future reference, let her know that it does not pay to run in with a wand when Ministry personnel are at work."

"Cornelius, please," Albus said quietly, for once looking every one of his hundred odd years. "I know Hagrid might be a bit thoughtless sometimes, but he'd never hurt a student willingly. And Minerva cares more than anyone else about the students here."

Even him, he had to admit.

"Look at it from my point of view, Albus," the Minister of Magic replied, fidgeting with his bowler. "I'm under a lot of pressure. I have a duty to the public, you know."

Silence reigned.

"Perhaps this conversation would be better had at your office Minister?" asked the dulcet tones of Lucius Malfoy. "If the good Headmaster would be willing to accompany us to the Ministry?"

"…so be it then."

So it was that, one month after Valentine's Day, Rubeus Hagrid and Minerva McGonagall were taken into custody by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, with Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, escorted to the Ministry of Magic by Lucius Malfoy and the Minister himself to work out some kind of bargain that would see them free.

Dumbledore knew it would cost him dearly then, even if he couldn't be sure just how dear the cost would be. After all, even he could not cover up the presence of a dragon at Hogwarts, not when an entire Ministry strike team could testify otherwise. The Governors would be – quite rightfully – upset that this had happened, and as Headmaster, he would be forced to take responsibility.

* * *

><p>Fortunately, given that dawn was yet to come, few bore witness to his departure – except two figures who had been watching and waiting for such an occurrence – one a student who purportedly sought to protect the Stone from unworthy hands, and the other who sought it for his own gain. Indeed, the second was rather proud that his efforts to secure a dragon egg over the winter holidays had borne fruit, as it had been exactly what he needed to coax the secret of how to get past the Cerberus from Hagrid.<p>

And even better, the half-giant's enthusiasm had made him quite the convenient patsy…

In his office, Quirinus Quirrell _smiled._

* * *

><p>Soon it would all be over, and one way or another, the Stone would be <em>his<em>.

As for Matou Shinji, the poor hard-working boy had just managed to drift off to sleep a few hours before, only to be shaken awake by a House Elf. Such was not a pleasant experience, as it meant he opened his eyes to see a little creature looming over him with large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls.

Tensing, he froze as the figure backed off, thrusting a pouch roughly into his hands.

"Wha…?"

"Matou Shinji," the house elf squeaked out. "Sokaris waits for you."

With that, the creature disappeared – returning to the kitchens no doubt.

Sokaris?

Why was she asking something to wake him up now? It must still be the middle of the night – why was she even up? Uncharitable thoughts aside about her lack of humanity though, Shinji figured that if she was going so far as to send a house-elf to wake him up, it had to be important

…at least, it had _better_ be important.

Deciding that he should trust his gut, he rolled out of bed and grabbed his _ofuda_ and wand before checking the pouch.

A set of potions and a bezoar.

He couldn't think of any reason why she might be giving him this, except one: the time had come for the great Stone Heist.

…but it was too soon. As far as he knew, the Stone Cutters weren't ready for such an endeavor. They had projected that the first opportunity to do so would be during the Spring Holidays, and their training schedules had been designed with that in mind. There was more he wanted to practice, more the group as a whole _needed_ to practice to even feel ready for what they were about to attempt.

Unfortunately, reality had a habit of following its own whims, as opposed to anyone else's desires.

That was the unpleasant truth that Matou Shinji had been forced to face what seemed like a lifetime ago, when he found out he wasn't the heir to the Matou craft. And such was the unpleasant truth that he was facing now, when as he was about to embark on possibly the most serious thing he'd ever done.

The decision to fight the troll had been on made on the spur of the moment. There was no time to consider the risks, the consequences, the pros and cons – merely enough time to act. With this though, he had a choice and he knew it.

…even as he knew he'd already made his choice.

He'd promised to help Sokaris. He'd promised to be Harry's friend. He'd promised to support the other Stone Cutters, and that wasn't something he could just go back on. Not now. Not without throwing away everything that made Matou Shinji who he was today and not the miserable boy who had discovered he was worthless.

He refused to become that boy, the boy who ran from reality until he could run no longer.

He'd made his choices – now he'd have to live with them.

And so, once he'd dressed, he stepped out into the corridor, where Sokaris was indeed waiting, her eyes closed as she leaned against the wall, her face grim and set.

"It's time, isn't it?" he asked.

"Indeed. Dumbledore is gone," the alchemist replied, opening her eyes as she noted his arrival. "He left the Castle escorted by the Minister of Magic. I do not think he will be back for some time."

"…you saw this, I presume?"

"Indeed, Matou Shinji," the girl said softly. "I do not require much sleep, as you are aware."

"I am, yes. And you had the house-elves wake each of us up?"

"It was more efficient than the alternative," Sokaris noted, which was true enough. "Though the message was different for each."

"I see. You _are_ coming with us, though?"

"Naturally."

"Then did you have any plans for how to distract Quirrell?"

"The probability of success of any method is not high," Sokaris answered, much as Shinji was afraid of. "It is quite likely that Quirrell possesses some skill with Legilimency, so sending someone to distract him is ill-advices. Using Peeves requires finding him, which is more trouble than it is worth at the moment. And it too early to go with other measures."

"So, what you're saying is, our best chance is just go to in, get the Stone, and get out."

She nodded.

"Alright then. So what are the Potions you've given us?"

"A number of useful brews. You would be advised to sip one of the grey ones now - it is an invisibility potion."

"An invisibility potion? Does that do what I think it will?"

"It will allow one to be invisible for a time, much as a strong Disillusionment Charm or an Invisibility Cloak might," she confirmed, taking up a grey and bubbly vial and downing the contents, vanished from sight. "Let us go. The rendezvous point will be at the entrance to the Forbidden Corridor."

"Right then," Shinji said, taking a deep breath to steady himself one final time before he did the same. "Let's move out."

And so it was that two - no - three invisible forms crept out of Ravenclaw Tower to meet their destiny and face their final test.


	25. Belly of the Beast

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 25:<strong> _Belly of the Beast_

"Don't touch the keys unless you have to!" Hillard barked out, as they came into the third chamber, with its many winged keys, wrought of all manner of metals and materials. "We don't know what charms might be on them."

"But there were no charms when—"

"—I went through this in my scenario!" George protested, his mind having had suspicions about the area since the group had subdued the disingenuously named Fluffy with an enchanted music box, with the Twins moving to scout the darkness below with their brooms.

Using _Lumos_ to guide their way, they'd identified a chamber of what had looked like Devil's Snare, with some Venomous Tentacula mixed in. A dangerous combination, that. One plant – the one they had all had ample experience with by now would ensnare anything it touched, while the other would either riddle potential prey with spikes or inflict highly venomous bites.

Indeed, Professor McGonagall's husband, Elphinstone Urquart, had been killed by one such plant, leaving the Transfiguration Professor a widow.

Seeing this, the Twins had advised against jumping down and had scouted ahead, finding a brilliantly lit chamber full of what looked like small, jewel-bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the room, with a heavy wooden door on the other side. They'd frowned at this and pulled out the Marauder's Map, hoping that it would show them how many chambers there were to this dungeon – but these chambers were not on the map.

This was something of a disappointment, but then it made sense that rooms in Hogwarts would not be plotted if the Marauders had never discovered them – and these chambers were likely shielded against mapping attempts for obvious reasons.

Most importantly though, the chamber contained broomsticks enough for the others. Four of them, in fact – just enough – for the others.

That in itself was suspicious to the minds of the Twins, but there was really nothing for it. While their potions kits had each included a bezoar, the pranksters figured they would probably need those for Snape's challenge. So, they'd each grabbed a couple of brooms and brought them up to the group waiting up above.

Hillard had seemed surprised at their find, looking at the newly acquired brooms suspiciously, as if thinking they might be cursed with a Hurling Hex or some other manner of mischief.

Still…

"Did you say there was Venomous Tentacula down there?" he'd asked, to which the Twins had nodded. He'd taken a moment to weigh the pros and cons, but there wasn't much to weigh. "I see. Well – it's good to see the professors are taking the defense of the Stone seriously, but I don't think something of that level will stop Quirrell, do you?"

The entire group had shaken their heads.

"That's what I thought. We'll have to use the brooms then," the prefect concluded, shaking his head at the thought of what he was about to do. If someone had told him when he came to Hogwarts that he and a motley group of students would one day attempt to steal the Philosopher's Stone from under Dumbledore's nose, he'd have taken the person to St. Mungo's. But as the old wizarding saying went, "Reality was the strangest magic of all" – a saying not entirely unlike the muggle "Reality is stranger than fiction."

"Let's keep our wands out, just in case," Shinji had spoken up.

"Indeed. Be ready to levitate each other if necessary, or to help each other out of the Snare in case the brooms are jinxed," Hillard agreed. He was a prefect, damnit, not a trained burglar – even if the spell he'd used to open the door to the Cerberus (_Alohomora_), _was _known as the Thief's Friend. "Twins, go first since your brooms are known to be reliable."

The Twins had done so, with the others gingerly mounting the new brooms and following in their wake. Hillard, as an afterthought, had summoned the music box, so that in the worst case, if Quirrell came after them, he would have no sign that someone was already making an attempt on the Philosopher's Stone.

Quirrell would be bad enough to face _with_ surprise on their side, if it came down to it. Without it, well…their only hope was that he'd focus on getting the Stone as opposed to ending whatever threat they posed.

Because if he focused on _them_ instead…

Hillard shuddered. He knew the stories of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, stories that some parents still used to frighten bad children. He was the Wizarding World's bogeyman, against which the only talisman was the name of the Boy-Who-Lived.

The very boy who was mounting one of the new brooms, flanked by Matou and Sokaris. Though he knew they were competent, Hillard couldn't help but keep a careful watch on the trio who preceded him into the chambers below. Every legend had a kernel of truth, even in the Wizarding World, and he thought that the bravery of the Boy-Who-Lived in this said something about him – or at least, who he might become. And while he knew Matou had other motives to associating with Harry Potter besides friendship and loyalty, the young Ravenclaw wasn't as cold as he seemed to most people. He'd seen how kind Shinji could be in the moments he thought no one was looking – how Granger had cried herself to sleep in his arms, for example, or the little things that he and Sokaris did for each other.

Speaking of Sokaris…

Well, to be perfectly honest, he still had little idea about what the girl could do and just what her interest in the Stone was, but Harry and Shinji had both vouched for her, so that would have to be enough. That aside, she _had_ been the one to let them know Dumbledore had left the castle and had displayed a surprising aptitude for potions, given that she and Matou had arrived at the rendezvous point unseen, their presence only revealed by a silent _Homenum revelio_.

There was no point in dwelling on that now though, as the group managed to successfully bypass the chamber of plants, proceeding slowly through a downward sloping stone passageway until they reached the threshold of the chamber where the broomsticks had been found.

"Merlin, those aren't birds – they're keys!" Hillard exclaimed after squinting a bit. "Let's not touch them unless we have to."

When the twins protested…

"There wasn't any Venomous Tentacula mixed with the Devil's Snare in your scenario either," Hillard pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "Which means that there's no guarantee the information in your scenarios was complete – or correct."

"I suppose he has a point, oh brother of mine," Fred groused, though he nodded.

"Just so."

"Perhaps it would be prudent for one member of the party to examine the door." Sokaris brushed an errant strand of hair from her face and eyed the door at the other end of the chamber gingerly. "While getting through will likely involve the flying keys in some way, we should make sure they are not a decoy."

"Good suggestion," Hillard agreed. He would go himself, but thought disillusionment might be picked up. This was likely Flitwick's set of defenses, and it wasn't unheard of for charms to react to other charms. It was quite possible that should they try using any high-level spells here, the keys would react violently. "Weasleys? You have a cloak between the two of you – are you up for it?"

While he knew Potter had one as well, the Twins were more experienced with this sort of thing.

"Sure. Leave it—"

"—to us—"

"—or to me, rather," George said cheerfully, dropping his broomstick, pulling on his invisibility cloak and disappearing from sight. The prankster took a deep breath and walked slowly across the room, keeping a wary eye on the keys hovering above, almost expecting to feel sharp metal ripping into him at any second, but nothing happened.

He reached the door untouched, wrapped his hand in a layer of the robe and pulled on the handle, only to find it locked. Even a quick _Alohomora_ – which he almost expected to bring the wrath of the keys down on him - didn't work, though he hadn't really expected it to.

It would have been far too easy otherwise.

He headed back to the others and tugged off his cloak, looking for any reaction from the hovering keys, breathing a sigh of relief as he found none.

"No good. Door's locked, alright. Any bright ideas?" George asked, looking back to the other Stone Cutters, all of which were holding their…

_Brooms._

"Wait. We got the broomsticks in this room, right, brother of mine?" George looked between the flying keys and the brooms in his comrades' hands.

"You're not saying—"

"—oh but I am, brother of mine—"

"—only I never figured—"

"—that Flitwick would like Quidditch this much?"

Shinji groaned as he looked between the brooms and the fluttering keys.

"…we have to catch the right key then?" he concluded. He liked the sensation of flying, he really did, but the boy from the east had quite felt comfortable on these. "Wouldn't it be easier for me to seal the movement of the one we want?"

"Maybe," Hillard allowed, "but we have to figure out which one _is_ the right one."

And there were a teeming multitude of the keys, each darting and diving and moving too quickly for the eye to fully track. Even the Weasleys, with their Quidditch experience, were having trouble following what was what in the swarm.

"We're probably looking for a big, old-fashioned one," George noted, thinking back to what the lock had looked like. "Possibly silver, like the handle."

"Pity none of us are Seekers," Fred added, shaking his head. "Ah, right, Harrikins. You have a set of omnioculars, right?"

"Y-yes," Harry said, surprised one of the twins was asking him something. "You want me to see if I can find the key?"

"If you have one, then that's not a bad idea," Hillard said. "Good thinking, Weasleys. Harry, if you haven't used them before, omnioculars can slow down and replay action. Take them out, and I'll show you."

He moved over as Harry fished the golden contraption out of his Mokeskin pouch and spent a minute demonstrating how to record, replay, and such on them.

"Right useful things they are. Pity they never come with a manual," the prefect sighed, shaking his head. "Not that anyone would read one of those in the first place."

"Ah." Harry blinked, surprised at the device was capable of. He'd just assumed Sokaris had gotten him a fancy pair of binoculars, and hadn't found an occasion to use them before. "Thanks…Robert."

"The probability of success would be higher if we were already in the air," Sokaris suggested. "From the ground, it is difficult to determine where a key might be in a swarm, and we would have less time to seize a key even if you saw one."

Taking the suggestion, the group kicked off into the air, with the keys parting above them as they ascended, whirling about on rainbow feathers. Harry began scanning, weaving through the multitude for a minute or two when –

"I see it. A big silver key with bright blue wings!"

"Are you sure?" Hillard asked sharply. He had absolutely no desire to be scrabbling about on a wild goose chase. If he did, he'd have tried out for the Quidditch team.

To check, Harry pushed what looked like the rewind button on his omnioculars, hitting the freeze frame button the moment the key flashed into view.

"Yes," he said, flying over and passing the device to the prefect, who nodded, passing it to the next person, and the next, before it came back around to Harry. "But do we really want to try grabbing it?"

"…point," Hillard allowed, stroking his chin in thought. "I don't think Flitwick is the type to use anything Dark, but there are other spells that are used for defending things like treasure from those who don't have a right to it."

"Yeah. Bill mentioned a few—"

"—from his work as a cursebreaker for Gringotts," the Weasleys added. "Right nasty business—"

"—some of those even—"

"—eat a man from the inside out!"

Harry swallowed, the horrible vision of Daphne Greengrass being eaten away by darkness coming to his mind with utter clarity, flesh and bone dissolving into ash, her face contorted in fear as she was consumed by a curse.

His breathing grew ragged. _No._ If that was what waited, maybe it was better to give up now. He couldn't…what if…

"Harry Potter, steady yourself."

There was a hand on his shoulder, with Sokaris looking at the boy with something that might be sympathy.

"Sokaris, I…" Harry swallowed, his throat dry.

"Do you trust us, Harry Potter?"

Did he? And in what way? The Boy-Who-Lived knew the Weasleys were brave, that Hillard was experienced, that Shinji and Sokaris were more capable than other first years, but…

"Do not worry," the purple-haired girl continued, her eyes unexpectedly sharp. "I have no intention of sacrificing myself for you. I have my reasons for being here as well."

To most people, that would probably be less than reassuring. But to Harry – it meant that she wouldn't simply die on him. He'd seen enough death that the fear of it – the fear of others dying because of him – nearly paralyzed him. Would have paralyzed him, had the others not been with him.

He wasn't going to let them go alone, not if there was something he could do.

He nodded.

"Thanks," he said roughly.

Meanwhile, the Weasleys had flown over to Shinji, looking the boy over.

"That thing you did with the troll – do you think you could stop the key, if you see it?"

"Would sure be easier to grab something on the ground than in the air,"

"Indeed it would, brother of mine!"

Shinji's lips tightened as he looked at into the swarm of keys.

"I'll try it."

It was probably safer than casting a spell with a wand, since the ofuda would just go after its target, without the risk of hitting something in between.

He hoped.

So the Japanese boy sped down into the cloud of buzzing, swarming keys, each one moving about randomly, darting and diving so quickly that any one of them would be nearly impossible to catch. But then he didn't need to catch it – he just needed to catch sight of it.

_There!_

Swooping down towards the key, he pointed at it and cried out "Seal!"

A single _ofuda _shot from his sleeve, flying unerringly for the key and binding it—before burning to ashes, with two keys appearing where there had only been one.

'…_shit.'_

Knowing better than to try again, he flew back up to the group, reporting what had happened.

"Your charm burned up and two keys appeared?" Hillard repeated, blinking, not liking the sound of this. "What would have happened if one of us had touched it?"

"It sounds like the _Gemino_ – "

"—and Flagrante charms—"

"—used for high security vaults at Gringotts –"

"Anything we touch will—

"—burn and multiply, but the copies—"

"—will be worthless."

"…that's great. But…how are we supposed to find the original?" Hillard groaned. "There are two of those keys now, and one of those will be useless."

"Mokeskin," Sokaris commented, holding up her silver-green pouch.

"Hm?"

"The interior of such a pouch is enchanted so that it can hold more than a normal pouch," the would-be alchemist pointed out. "Indeed – the size of the interior and exterior are incongruous, implying that if one were to grab something with the open mouth of the pouch, one would not actually be touching the object with the material."

The Stone Cutters shared a collective blink as they tried to process that.

"You mean…"

"…if we had Mokeskin pouches, then we could grab the keys safely?"

"Indeed, and due to the enchantment on it, once an object has been placed inside – even partially, none but the owner might remove it."

"That's—"

"—bloody brilliant."

"The issue remains that there are two keys at present," Hillard pointed out. "Unless there are two of us with—" He stopped cold as Harry sheepishly showed his. "That works then. Harry, Sokaris, since the two of you have pouches, you lead – we'll help herd the keys as best we can."

And so they did.

Harry, who had the Weasley Twins helping him, managed to seize hold of his key first, pinning it against the wall with the interior of the pouch. He used the pouch to grip what probably was the handle tightly as a burning smell came from inside.

Sokaris took slightly longer, as she didn't simply dive into the heart of the swarm, but seemed to circle above, eyes half-lidded in concentration – until at last she shot forward, capturing the key in a quick burst of speed.

Both landed quickly, heading to the door, with keys struggling futilely to escape from their Mokeskin pouches. Harry tried his key first, putting his key into the lock and turning it – only for it to crumble to dust.

A duplicate.

Sokaris tried immediately after, inserting her key into the heavy lock and turning it. This time it worked, with the key redoubling its struggles to escape now after the door opened.

But she wasn't about to let it escape, and forced the mouth of the pouch up over the keyshaft with the drawstrings.

"Come through with the brooms, and quickly," she said firmly. "Let's not leave our opponent a way through, if we can manage it."

The rest followed, flying into a chamber was so dark they couldn't see anything at all, the door closing behind them with a resounding _thud_. But, as Sokaris stepped into it, light flooded the room to reveal an astonishing sight.

They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, behind the black chessmen, which were all taller than they were and carved from what looked like black stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were towering white pieces with no faces.

In the distance, behind the white pieces, they could see another door.

And in front of the black pieces, there was a pedestal, with a heavy book on it, a quill, and an ink-well alongside.

As Sokaris opened the book, motes of light swirled up from the old tome, forming seven words: _"Would you like to play a game?"_

"So we have to play our way across the room," Hillard commented, shaking his head. "Funny thing really. I'm a Ravenclaw but I never did like wizard's chess."

"Don't look at us—"

"—our brother Ron is the chess player—"

"—in the family," the twins chorused.

"Never had a chance to play," Harry said glumly.

"_Shogi_ just isn't the same thing," Shinji added, looking at the board. "Is there another way across – can we fly, perhaps?"

Sokaris wrote down '_Do we need to play to get across_?'

'_Yes_'the bookreplied in golden letters. _'The white king must be checkmated for the door to open.'_

'_Risk?'_

'_Abandon all hope.'_

That…was not especially promising. Still, they'd come too far to give up now, and while Sokaris could play a good game of chess if necessary, she wanted to see if there were other options.

'_What games are available?'_

The listed options were: Falken's Maze, Gobstones, Exploding Snap, and Wizard's Chess.

None of them had ever heard of Falken's Maze, whatever that might be. Gobstones was right out, given that no one really wanted to deal with the prospect of giant stone balls that would spit _something – _perhaps acid or the like – at them if they were to lose a point. Exploding Snap – well, the reason they didn't want to deal with that game was obvious in the very name, as the cards it was played with…well, exploded without warning.

"I guess—"

"—Chess it is then," the Weasleys said uneasily. They had no great expectation that they would succeed in getting across…

'_Specify number of players.'_

…especially if they had to replace pieces on the board. They knew what happened during Wizard's Chess, after all – how a piece that was taken was eliminated by the attacking piece, often in a rather barbaric manner where the losing piece was smashed apart.

No one wanted to risk – at best – a concussion, and at worst, a stone sword through the gut.

Now, given probabilities of each piece surviving, it would seem logical to deploy the Stone Cutters as both rooks and the pawns immediately in front of and diagonal to them – in those positions, they would have a minimum of one in two chance of survival. Certainly, replacing any of the Knights would be a bad move – they only had a one in four chance of survival. The bishops did not generally fare better, with slightly over a one in three chance.

But though Sokaris' specialty was statistics and calculation, she also knew one other very crucial thing – how much losing even one Stone Cutter would demoralize the rest, and likely spell the end of this attempt on the Stone, so there was something she wanted to try.

Thus, she wrote _'0' _when prompted for the number of players, as the game simply began, faceless white pieces going up against and being smashed by black pieces and vice versa.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, noting how the pieces were moving on their own. "What's going on?"

"Testing something," Sokaris answered, as she looked at the board, where the pace of the game was picking up. "The exact words were that the white king must be checkmated. It was specified how that needed to occur."

To prove her point, the white king took off his crown and tossed it on the chessboard, with the chessmen bowing and moving off the board, leaving the path to the door clear.

Surprised that that had worked, the group moved forwards, passing through the door and into the next passageway as the chessmen took their places again.

"…how did you know that would work?" Hillard asked, looking suspiciously at the younger girl who had outwitted the challenge so handily.

"I did not," Sokaris admitted readily. "However, in designing a challenge like this, it was likely that there was a workaround in place to allow testing, without putting the creator at risk. And if that workaround was not removed..."

"Clever," Hillard noted. It was certainly an impressive piece of logic, though her reasoning seemed more than a little too sophisticated for a first year. "And you thought that such a 'workaround' would be there?"

"It was better than the alternative," the purple-haired Ravenclaw replied. "Given the potential for unfavorable outcomes if we were to accept the challenge's rules, I concluded that the only winning move was not to play at all."

Hillard nodded. This was true enough, but…

"We are having a talk after this is all over," he said firmly. Frankly, with Sokaris having becoming so involved in the business of the Stone Cutters, this was something they should have done already, but more than ever, this adventure in the underground chambers was ringing alarm bells in his head.

For one, Sokaris didn't act like a first year. He hadn't really noticed before since he hadn't had the chance to interact with her extensively, but her stance, her language, her conclusions – even how she had prepared a bag of potions for them and arranged for house elves to wake up the Stone Cutters – those screamed of planning, experience, and a kind of calculation that wasn't the norm, at all.

"Certainly, Prefect Hillard." The girl nodded curtly, taking the lead as they moved into the room ahead of them, only to freeze at the sound of a low, terrifying laugh.

"No…"

"_How philistine. To appear behind the curtain before the show starts. Have you not grown at all since that night, Eltnam?"_

A voice spoke in the darkness, echoing in the chamber, as an elegantly dressed man in purple and gold clothing descended from the chamber above.

He opened his eyes, revealing blood-red orbs that bled endlessly and smiled – revealing a mouth full of wickedly sharp teeth.

A monster in human form, radiating enough killing intent to freeze them where they stood.

And for the first time, the group heard Sialim Sokaris _scream_.


	26. Terror in Resonance

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 26:<strong> _Terror in Resonance_

Things had gone smoothly so far, Harry thought to himself as he followed his fellow Stone Cutters into this latest chamber. Almost too smoothly, really, since they'd managed to get past well over half of the defenses without any injury to the group.

Which was why it didn't _entirely_ surprise him that something had gone wrong now, in this foul smelling chamber that reeked of death and decay, with a spike of killing intent blasting into to the room and freezing the group where they stood. His instincts _screamed _at him, told him to run, to flee, but his body would not respond.

"No! You can't be here!" Sokaris all but _snarled_, her fingers seeming somehow sharper. "This place does not support your manifestation, TATARI!"

"_Ah…my daughter, you have once again miscalculated, I see." _The voice of the elegantly dressed man – no – the voice of TATARI – echoed. _"But then you have forgotten your true skill."_

"I do not wish to hear that from the one who disgraced the Eltnam and became a vampire!"

Sokaris was panting heavily now, clutching her chest as she fell to her knees.

"_Is that how truly what you believe, Eltnam? You – like I – have no sense of self. You, like I, can live only by taking things from others. That is why I allowed you to live, after all – you are my ideal successor."_

"No…I'm not…"

"_Metamorphmagus they call you – these…wizards. If they only knew the truth that all you are is an illusion. Your knowledge, behavior, morality, sense – none of it is who you really are. It is all simply stolen from others."_

"Stop," Sokaris rasped, swallowing hard. "St-op."

_Kikikiki._

Empty, mocking laughter echoed from the chamber walls. A laughter born of madness, born of the joy of ending countless lives, as the figure made its way over towards the trembling girl.

"_Why? It is only the truth, Eltnam. The truth that you who hate vampires practically acted like one from the moment you were born." _The blond figure's voice spoke in an incredibly intimate, knowing tone, one that made a listener feel…dirty, as if one was being violated just by listening to it. The figure's fingers roughly lifted the girl's face to look at him, to look into his eyes of blood, as his thumb brushed her cheek almost…sensually. _"Even though a human being with your name exists, you are but something without substance who can only live by stealing other people's knowledge. Just like me."_

Once more, the TATARI smiled, a mouthful of razor-edged teeth glinting in the light as its claws drew blood, with Sokaris whimpering as it leaned close to her. She could almost feel its breath upon her skin, filled with the sticky sweet tang of fresh-spilled blood.

"_Still – your talent is remarkable. _Sialim Sokaris. _A performance with enough skill to be mistaken as the real thing. Truly there are no doubts as to the capabilities of the TATARI's successor. Accept it. Your role. Your body. What you truly are, my daughter."_

"N…o."

"_**Accept it."**_

Blood red eyes looked into violet, ordering her, compelling her, imposing their will upon her.

"No."

"_**Accept it."**_

"I…I…."

But what could she say? What could she claim? That it was a lie?

She…she…could not. She was…Sialim Sokaris was…

"Leave Sokaris alone!" someone bellowed – his own voice, as the broom-riding form of Harry Potter acted, rocketing forward and barreling into the so-called vampire without holding anything back. The vampire, taken by surprise, was knocked away from his friend, with Harry himself hurled from the broomstick he'd ridden to the ground.

Without a rider, the besom continued along its course at full speed, slamming the vampire into the wall with a sickening _crash_!

"Ugh." Harry's vision swam, stars flashing before his eyes, though at least that incredible pressure that had paralyzed him was gone. Was Sokaris…ok? Was—

"Harry…" something whispered from the direction of the crash, with the Boy-who-Lived raising his head and looking towards only to freeze as he beheld the sight of Daphne Greengrass bleeding profusely from where she had been _run through by a broomstick_. "Help me…"

"No…"

He knew that what he was seeing wasn't real. That it couldn't be real. That Daphne was back in the dormitories of Slytherin House.

But fear wasn't rational.

And what he saw – what he heard – smelled – felt – was a dying Daphne Greengrass, her eyes looking at him desperately, pleading for his help.

No. This wasn't real. It couldn't be…

….it was a mistake…it had to be a mistake…Daphne couldn't actually be…

But he didn't have time to think about it, as a jet of silver light hit him in the back and Harry started to laugh. He didn't know what had come over him – why he was laughing – just that laughter spilled from his lips without pause, his body writhing as if something – someone – were tickling him without end.

He tried to stop – he shouldn't be laughing at the sight of Daphne bleeding out in front of him, shouldn't be laughing at the fact that he – his actions – had killed her.

"Why?" the girl seemed to ask, as the light faded from her eyes. "Why…?"

…but Harry just laughed and laughed and laughed, until at last the body vanished from sight.

* * *

><p>Hillard lowered his wand, having hit Potter with <em>Rictusempra – <em>the Tickling Charm – as a last resort when he saw the boy was in no state to fight. Not that he himself was in much of a state to fight. Sokaris' boggart – for boggart it had been – had nearly undone him and the rest, with the prefect all but convinced that he was about to die.

For surely a vampire would not simply be satisfied with breaking Sialim Sokaris, if that really was her name. It would come after each one of them, draining them one by one – or having Sokaris do it to mark her conversion.

It was hard to believe such a being existed – he imagined that this fear was what others had felt around You-Know-Who – yet alone of any of them, Harry Potter had found the courage to stand and _act. _But then, perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised, now that he'd seen what his boggart had become.

Not Lord Voldemort, as some would suspect, but a badly injured girl who was bleeding out before his eyes.

If his memory served, that was Daphne Greengrass, one of the first year Slytherins – and also one of those that Harry had chosen to accompany him during the dungeon challenge.

He felt guilty for forcing Harry to laugh at that, but there had been no time, and frankly, no choice. The prefect knew he couldn't have mustered up the willpower and concentration to use _Riddikulus, _the traditional charm used to fight a boggart. With the vestiges of what he could only describe as an intent to destroy all life still driving his instincts to madness, it had been all he could do to perform the simple Tickling Charm.

Harry was silent now, as one of the twins had cast a _Finite_, but the charm done its job.

People often made the mistake of thinking that mastering the _Riddikulus _charm was necessary to defeat a boggart, but that wasn't strictly true. All that was needed was laughter. The _Riddikulus_ charm helped, in that it made a boggart more amusing and inspired one to laugh, but it wasn't necessary.

Laughter alone would be enough.

That was why he had done it, why he had cast the spell on the Boy-Who-Lived, even if now, in the aftermath, he felt terrible for doing so.

After a minute, the prefect found the strength to put one foot in front of the other and make his way to Harry's side.

"Potter…are you alright?" Hillard asked.

But the Boy-Who-Lived didn't answer. He just sat on the ground unmoving, looking at the place where he had seen Daphne's body vanish.

Being forced to laugh, it seemed, had sent him into a state of shock.

Sokaris had likewise regained her footing, though the air of confidence that had surrounded her was gone. Still, she waved off Matou's assistance, the way she was hunched over, arm guarding her stomach indicating all too well that she was in pain and did not want to be touched.

"First time facing a boggart?" he asked, feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl. That was probably one of the nastiest creatures Quirrell could have used here – and yet, they should have expected it.

The Defense Professor, had, after all, said time and time again that the worst possible enemy one could face was fear itself, since fear could paralyze and disable where spells otherwise could not. And well, what was a boggart but a reflection of one's fears, taking on both the form and power of what one feared most?

"Yes."

Her answer was…terse, to say the least, with Robert Hillard making the wise decision not to pry further. What the boggart had become had obviously upset her, though he couldn't really picture her as a vampire – and the assertion that this "Tatari" character had disgraced what was apparently her family, the Eltnam, puzzled him.

People could be turned into vampires, but that wasn't their fault – it was because a vampire bit them. Could she be a part-vampire? No, that didn't fit either. She didn't bear much of a resemblance to Lorcan d'Eath, the only one he was aware of, at least.

But this really wasn't the time to be thinking about these things.

There would be time enough after the Stone, since right now, he was needed to help protect Sokaris and Harry - to help protect the group, really, from anything else Quirrell sent at them.

And that there would be something else, Hillard was certain, as the smell of the chamber was all too familiar.

Troll.

* * *

><p>In the aftermath of the boggart incident, Shinji tried to approach Sokaris to see if she was alright, given the ordeal she'd endured, but the alchemist had rebuffed him. It stung a little to see her pulling away from him, but the fact that she was refusing help from anyone else made him feel a little better. After all, if she simply didn't feel like talking to anyone, that was something he could understand.<p>

Though the words she and the…boggart-made apparition had exchanged was something he couldn't – didn't _want to_ understand.

TATARI, she'd called the man. The name of one of the most dreaded vampires in the world.

The Night of Wallachia, the Thirteenth of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors.

TATARI's successor, the man had called her. His _daughter._

His mind reeled, turning away from that line of thought as Shinji's legs nearly buckled, but he forced himself to stay calm. That was simply an illusion, a reflection of what she feared most. It was not necessarily her.

And anyway, Harry seemed to need help, as the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't even moving from where he'd fallen, a haunted look in his eye, his gaze fixed and unwavering.

"Harry, are you alright?" Shinji crouched down beside his friend and waved a hand in front of his face, only to receive no response, no flicker of recognition. "Harry? Can you hear me?"

But if the Boy-Who-Lived could, he wasn't showing it.

Footsteps echoed on chamber floor, with Shinji looking up to see Sokaris making her way over to the two other first years.

"Sokaris," he said, acknowledging her presence.

"I will see to the Boy-Who-Lived," the young alchemist intoned quietly, opening a small satchel she had with her. Her expression was hard, but what worried him more was her tone, which had gone utterly flat. "Take this."

She fished out a phial filled with an acid-green suspension, and offered it to him, only for Shinji to blink.

"Isn't this one of your explosive potions?" he asked, confused as to why she would want him to hold it for her. "I have my ofuda for that."

"No, Matou Shinji - this is Shrinking Solution," she corrected, wrinkling her nose. "In case of trolls."

Shinji raised an eyebrow but accepted the phial.

"But don't trolls have magic resistance?" he questioned, remembering just how many ofuda it had taken to slow the wretched creature he and the other Stone Cutters had fought at Halloween.

"Indeed, Matou Shinji," the girl replied. "But that does not apply to what they swallow." There was a flicker of her old self there, but only a flicker. "Now go."

"As you wish."

That Sokaris was a bundle of secrets, if Sokaris was even her real name, was something he knew well. But he had no right to complain about that now. He'd known from the moment he met her that she was different, that _like him_, there were things about her that shouldn't be looked at too closely.

After all, he kept his share from her as well.

"How is he?" Hillard asked as Shinji rejoined the other Stone Cutters.

"I don't know. Sokaris is seeing to him," the Japanese boy said. "She said something a troll."

"She's right."

Hillard's reply was rather unhappy, with the older boy rubbing his eyes with one hand.

"There's one sleeping over—"

"—on the other end of the chamber, blocking a door," the Twins added helpfully.

"And it's even bigger than the one we fought at Halloween," Hillard said grimly. "There's no room to run. No Peeves to distract it. Only four of us in any condition to fight. And Sokaris and Harry on the other side of the room. I'm…open to suggestions."

Shinji couldn't help but smile as he held up the phial Sokaris had given him.

"How about Shrinking Solution?"

Hillard lifted his finger and opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it.

"…actually, that would probably work," he said with a bit of chagrin. "Weasleys, any more ideas?"

The Twins pointed to their brooms.

"We'll fly around and keep the troll focused on us—"

"—the prefect can levitate the troll's club—"

"—and if wee little Matou can make the troll swallow the bit of Shrinking Solution—"

"—good old Robbie here can smash it flat."

Hillard mouthed the word "Robbie" incredulously as the twins did their little back and forth, but nodded after a moment.

"Fine. As good a plan as any, I suppose," the prefect grudgingly allowed. "Matou, any objections?"

"None."

"Good. Let's mount up."

The ensuing fight was fast, brutal, and rather bloody, but at least there were no dungbombs involved this time, nor any marauding poltergeists.

The Twins, remembering that one of the most annoying ways for someone to wake up was to have a cold bucket of water dumped on their head, did one better, casting the Freezing Charm at the troll.

A freezing wind _howled, _an ice cold gale rushing at the great Troll – who opened its eyes in irritation and roared in fury.

Sadly for the troll, it wouldn't get a chance to do much more than that, as Shinji swooped by and levitated the phial of Shrinking Solution neatly into the beast's gaping maw, with the creature inadvertently swallowing as it hit the back of its throat.

The troll lumbered to its feet, but it was too late, as the potent mix – brewed using the recipe of Zygmunt Budge himself – took effect, with its form shrinking, shrinking, shrinking – becoming the size of a human child who shrieked and shook its fists impotently at the broom-riders above.

Whereupon Hillard, who had used _Wingardium Leviosa_ to levitate the oversized club next to the troll at the beginning of the fight, brought the weapon down with a vengeance.

There were many ways for one to deal with fear.

Channeling it into anger and purging through violence was certainly not the best way, but for the Stone Cutters, it was what they had. If Quirrell had almost stopped them cold with fear, then they would let that fear become anger, anger become hate and _use_ it to further empower their spells, to stiffen their resolve.

So the club came down over and over and over again, ignoring the troll's screams of pain and agony, ignoring the sound of bone breaking and organs pulping, over and over until the once fearsome magical being was no more than a smear upon the ground.

For through victory their chains were broken.

* * *

><p>Hillard, Shinji, and the Twins pulled open the next door, wands at the ready in case this next room – presumably Snape's – contained some other monster of legend. It wasn't exactly a secret that the Head of Slytherin House had long desired the post of Defense against the Dark Arts instructor, so they weren't actually sure what to expect.<p>

…and on the off chance there was another boggart or worse, Hillard had decided to take point, since the last thing the Stone Cutters needed was to run into something like that…TATARI creature.

Whatever they were expecting, a table with seven differently shaped bottles upon it wasn't quite it, but they'd take the reprieve from combat.

They turned as one at the sound of footsteps and a grunt of pain to see Harry Potter and Sokaris approaching them, with the Boy-Who-Lived's form being supported by the purple-haired girl.

"Hey guys," Harry greeted weakly. "Sorry I…"

But Hillard stopped him by giving the boy a deep bow.

"Harry, what you did – charging Sokaris' boggart like that – was a very brave thing," the prefect said, knowing how fragile the boy probably was at the moment. "The rest of us were frozen by whatever that _thing_ it showed was. But you…you acted, and you saved her."

"Indeed," the girl agreed. "And I…thank you for it."

"I…"

Truth be told, he had only acted to stop his worst fear from coming to pass, to keep Sokaris from being killed from whatever that monster was. Harry had had no idea that was a boggart, or that it wouldn't just kill him for his interference.

But then, he hadn't thought. He'd just pushed past the fear of death and acted, because there was something he feared far worse than dying.

"I know." Sokaris interrupted him. "But there is a virtue to being able to act, even so."

"…if you say so, Sokaris."

There was little more to say, as the group stepped over the threshold together. The moment they did so, purple flames _whooshed _into existence in the doorway behind them, with flames the color of night blocking the doorway leading onwards.

They were trapped.

Shinji groaned, remembering the room he'd had to deal with in his Dungeon Challenge – the one with salamander fires blocking every passageway.

"…this is going to be another puzzle, isn't it?"

"Presumably," Hillard answered, looking about the otherwise featureless room. "And unless we solve it, we're probably trapped down here too."

The Weasley Twins, who had been looking a bit more closely at the table, discovered a roll of paper lying next to the bottles.

"Good old Snape—"

"—a riddle this is!" they exclaimed as they read the text – and riddle it was. Hillard and the others moved forward to have a look as well, blinking as they saw what was written there.

"You know, this might be difficult for some people, but Ravenclaws have to answer riddles every day just to get into the Tower," the prefect mused. "I would have expected something more…sadistic from Snape, to be quite honest."

In plaintext, the riddle said that of the bottles upon the table, one contained a potion that would allow the drinker to move forward through one set of flames, with another to let the drinker go back through the other. Two contained wine, and three contained poison.

It wasn't very difficult to figure out which potion did what, unless the riddle itself was a trap, and predictably, the bottle that would let them advance was the smallest.

There was enough for one – maybe two – people to go forward.

"I guess we have to split up," Hillard noted. His expression was grim – this was the last thing he wanted, for whoever went on would have only one person to back him or her up. But… "Sokaris, I imagine that as the person who has the most knowledge about the Stone, you wish to go on?"

"Correct."

"Who else then?"

"Me," Harry said weakly, grimacing as he steadied himself. "I'll do it."

"…are you…sure?" the prefect asked. He wasn't sure that was a good idea, since the Boy-Who-Lived didn't seem fully recovered even now. "I'm sure one of us wouldn't—"

"Please," Harry whispered, nearly pleading as he met the older boy's eyes. "I can't…I need to see this to the end."

To that, Hillard knew he could not say no, not when the Boy-Who-Lived seemed like he might fall to pieces otherwise.

"I understand, Harry," the prefect said grimly. "The rest of us will wait here then. Leave your brooms."

'…_and here we'll make our stand.'_

"I would advise taking a bezoar before imbibing any potion, just in case," Sokaris warned, placing one of the stonelike masses into her mouth as she took a small sip of the potion they thought would take them forward. "Hmm…it seems safe."

Harry followed suit.

The moment he took a gulp, ice flooded his body.

"Let's go, before it wears off," the alchemist said quietly, though she paused to drop a bag of empty phials on the table. "I'm sure you can work out a mischief to be done with these."

And with that, she and Harry passed through the flames into the final room.

The rest of the Stone Cutters did not simply stand idle. Fred and George filled the empty phials Sokaris had left with the potion to allow them to exit the chamber, replacing the contents of the flasks that had once contained potions to allow someone to move forward and back with poison.

Indeed, they added a bit of poison to the wine as well, for a nasty trick should Quirrell defeat them.

Shinji laid some binding ofuda on the ground to trap anyone who entered, with sealing ofuda to keep them in place.

Hillard raised a _Protego Totalum _about the room,to help buy time if it was necessary, though he had no great illusions that it would hold Quirrell off for long.

After that, they concealed themselves around the room, disillusioning themselves, drinking an invisibility potion, or hiding under a cloak of invisibility, readying themselves to spring an ambush if need be.

They were ready.

They were—

"_Confringo._"

* * *

><p>For a moment, as he passed through the flames, Harry could see, hear, feel nothing but dark fire, but then he was through into the final chamber, with no further doors in sight.<p>

They'd made it

They were deep in the bowels of Hogwarts now, in a chamber ribbed with cathedral-like vaults. But there was no stone here, only a mirror he'd seen once before – a magnificent artifact with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet.

He walked toward it slowly, almost as if entranced, but paused as he saw Sokaris and heard her speak.

"_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ - I show not your face but your heart's desire," Sokaris spoke, reading the inscription carved around the mirror's top. "The Mirror of Erised."

"…I didn't expect to see this again," Harry admitted, looking around uneasily. "But where's the stone?"

"I suspect it is within," Sokaris replied, averting her gaze from the looking glass. "After all, it would be a cunning trick to hide what one desires within an illusion, would it not?"

"Can you get it out?" he asked.

"No," the other admitted, shaking her head. "The Philosopher's Stone is not what I desire most. Not even now. But you desire it, don't you?"

"I just want to find the Stone before Quirrell does," Harry replied, walking up to the mirror. "That's what I want most in the world right now. Otherwise, everything we did. Everything we faced, it will have been for naught."

"Then focus on that desire and look," his companion urged him, with Harry complying.

At first, he saw only his reflection, pale and scared-looking.

But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket – and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket.

He pulled it from his pocket to look at it, marveling at how light it was, at how it seemed to glow with an inner warmth.

"The Philosopher's Stone," he could hear Sokaris murmur reverently.

Against all odds, they'd succeeded. They'd gotten the Stone. They'd won.

They'd won.

"It—"

And then Harry found himself bound and on the floor, the Stone flying out of his hands and seeming to disappear.

What had…?

Sokaris whirled to attack some unseen enemy, but was thrown to the ground when the Mirror of Erised _exploded_, with her prone body slammed with a halo of crimson light, and her wand flying up into the air, where it was caught by a disembodied hand.

No…not a disembodied hand.

The hand of someone _under an invisibility cloak, _something that was made quite obvious when shimmery fabric dropped to the ground to reveal the form of Professor Quirrell, who proceeded to cast a simple _Expelliarmus_ on the Boy-Who-Lived and claim his wand as well.

"Voldemort," Harry all but spat. "Bind!"

But a snake of fire consumed the ofuda shooting from his sleeves, burning away his clothing and any ofuda he had left as well.

"An acceptable attempt, Harry Potter, but hardly inventive," the man commented, though he looked surprised that the Boy-Who-Lived was unharmed. "Your friend Matou was far more creative, though not half as clever as he believed. Though I suppose I should give credit to Severus for making his potions so effective."

"You…"

"And it is good that you know the name of the one who truly bested you," Quirrell continued, his lips drawing up into a cruel smirk. "I had wondered if you would. Frankly, I had thought the Ravenclaws were the brains of your outfit. But then I suppose it's fitting that the Boy-Who-Defeated-Me-Once reminds me of…me."

Harry flinched.

"I'm nothing like you!"

"Oh really? I think the coming investigation will show otherwise," the man commented, his unwavering gaze making Harry feel like his forehead – no – his whole body was on fire. "It will find that Harry Potter deceived his comrades and coaxed them into helping him steal the Philosopher's Stone."

"No…you…"

"After all, it is well known that Lord Voldemort sought immortality, so why should the Boy-Who-Lived, the Parselmouth and so-called hero who vanquished him, who shares some of his powers, be any different?"

Harry swallowed.

"You…"

"You conspired with the half-giant who was expelled from Hogwarts for raising a monster in its halls, learning the secret of what was hidden here. You used him, just as you used your allies, those fools who thought they could trust you simply because you helped them defeat a troll."

"My friends…what did you…"

"You slew them, of course, in a tragic, but inevitable betrayal. Sadly, you were betrayed in turn by your co-conspirator, the girl named Sokaris, and ended up dying by the other's hand."

"You…killed them?"

Quirrell only laughed, a dry, cold sound that reminded Harry of every villain he'd ever hear of, a mad mocking cackle.

"Oh, not yet," the man confided, his blue eyes dark cold with malice. "I think my story would be far more convincing if it was your wand that took their lives, no?"

"No…please…no…"

"Ah, I had forgotten how nice it was to hear begging. But sadly, I cannot grant your request," intoned the cool, passionless voice of Quirinus Quirrell, as he pointed the length of olive in his hand – _Sokaris' wand_ – at Harry's heart. "After all, the story must unfold. The savior must become a villain, and the villain a hero."

"You…you…won't get away with this."

"I think you overestimate your teachers, just as you did your friends. Of course, the official story will be that Hermione Granger came to me, concerned for your whereabouts and that of your friend Sokaris, and fearing the worst, I came to investigate." He smiled then, a thin, tight-lipped expression that brought Harry anything but comfort. "Dumbledore and McGonagall are gone, after all, and in the absence of the Headmaster and his Deputy, it is the Defense Professor who is responsible for the castle's protection. Still, it was a pity I arrived too late. For by the time I reached the final chamber, you and your comrades were already dead."

"You…" Harry's head swam, horror filling him as he realized that people might actually believe it. That Quirrell had outwitted him. That it was Voldemort who had won. "You'll pay for this!"

"So many have said, Harry Potter. But don't worry – your friends will join you soon enough," he said, in an intimate voice much like that of Sokaris' boggart. "After all, it is only right that they will, _Boy-who-Lived. _It wouldn't do for me to leave behind such…messy details not taken care of."

Harry struggled, but it was futile.

He could not move, could not squeeze out of the ropes. His ofuda were gone. His wand was gone.

He could not do anything in the face of this enemy – a man who had bluntly said he was going to kill all of his friends. A man whose strength had showed him that all his power, all the tricks he could muster were useless in the face of an overwhelming foe.

That was Quirrell's final lesson – the lesson of futility.

For further words, struggle, resistance would be futile. In a moment, Harry knew he was going to die.

"Messy details? Is that all we ever were?" he asked.

"Indeed," the Dark Wizard confirmed. "Simply an unseen snag in the plans of Lord Voldemort. But with magic, such snags are easily undone, such messes erased from existence. _Avada Kedavra!"_

A green jet of light arced through the air, slamming into the chest of the Boy-Who-Lived—

—and the world went white.


	27. On a Pale Horse

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 27:<strong> _On a Pale Horse_

He drifted through a sea of white – no, not white, only what his eyes told him was supposed to be white, as they refused to process what was really there, his mind reeling from the reality of was all around him – the _nothing_ that was all around him. This was something humans couldn't comprehend, were not made to comprehend, a place that wasn't a place.

An expanse, a「 」with no name, a primordial void where nothing existed.

Not light, not air, not color, not sound. Not form, and certainly not time.

Yet within this void, his body floated, sunk, fell deeper and deeper into nothingness.

No, he couldn't be falling, as there was nothing here, nothing to fall from, to fall to, to fall through, so the very concept of falling itself was meaningless.

But how had he gotten here? His mind was fuzzy, his thoughts were clouded. What had he been doing? Where had he been before this? Who was he?

The last thing he remembered…

_Oh. _

…was a flash of green light.

The Killing Curse

_I see. Then this death. It's…peaceful._

But the moment he had this realization, something began to exist. First something like time, then something like color, then more and more and more, a world spinning into existence before his eyes, until Harry Potter found himself no longer falling, but standing in a wide-open space.

The place was at once familiar and not.

Familiar, given the features of it – the place was larger by far than the Great Hall, with its domed glass ceiling glittering high above, and radiant sunlight streaming in. He was dressed in the robes he'd worn the first day he came to Hogwarts, but that couldn't be. Bits and pieces of memory were coming to him now, and remembered the touch of fire, whispering across his flesh.

This place…

…it seemed like Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross Station, the place where his journey had begun.

Harry sighed. So this was it, then? He'd died and soon the train - the Hogwarts Express from the look of the engine pulling in now – would come to take him on some new adventure?

It was odd. He couldn't feel the aches and pains that had bothered him for so many years, couldn't even feel the familiar weight of his glasses on his face.

He touched his face to be sure, but it was true, he wasn't wearing glasses, yet he could see perfectly, better than he ever had, truth be told.

But that wasn't what felt most wrong about this place, what made the familiar so very alien.

No, what felt out of place was the fact that no one was there.

No one except a flayed and burned thing that might have once been a child, stuffed thoughtlessly under a seat. It flapped and flailed weakly, gasping for breath, its skin cracked and blackened, its face a bloody ruin.

Harry swallowed, a frisson of fear passing through him, as he saw it, though he didn't know why.

It was a small thing, fragile and wounded, yet he did not want to approach it, almost as if some sixth sense were warning him not to get closer.

_A WISE DECISION**. **_Harry froze at the sound of another voice, one that resonated in his head. He turned, only to blink at the sight of a skeleton in a very tattered robe, wielding a scythe that gleamed in the morning sun. The very image of the Grim Reaper, from the pictures he'd seen on books he'd never had the chance to read himself. _YOU COULD NOT HELP IF YOU WISHED._

"You're…Death, aren't you?" he asked in a very small voice, swallowing as he took a step back from the skeletal figure.

_SO SOME HAVE CALLED ME._

Fingers of bone made as if to tip A hat at the boy, but as Death was not wearing a hat, the effect was mostly lost.

"Then…I guess I am dead," Harry concluded, his shoulders slumping. "If I'm here and you are…"

_YES AND NO._

Harry blinked.

"Could you…explain that?"

Yes…_and_ no? How was that even possible? Wasn't someone either dead or not dead?

_IMAGINE IF YOU WILL, A CAT IN A BOX._

That seemed something of a non-sequitur, but Harry did as he was told. After all, this was Death Himself – or itself (the pronouns got messy), and he didn't think cutting off the skeleton would be a good idea.

_INSIDE THE BOX IS AN UNSTABLE POTION SECURED TO ONE SIDE WITH A STICKING CHARM. THE POTION MAY OR MAY NOT EXPLODE, BUT IF IT DOES, THE CAT WILL DIE._

Harry nodded. That didn't seem to be too hard to follow so far, even if it was a fairly cruel thing to do to a cat, but he still had no idea what this had to do with him.

_FROM THE OUTSIDE WORLD, ONE CANNOT TELL IF THE CAT IS ALIVE OR DEAD UNTIL THE BOX IS OPENED. THIS IS THE BOX. YOU ARE THE CAT._

"…but why?" Harry asked, his brows knitting together in confusion. "He hit me with the Killing Curse, didn't he?"

_YOU HAVE BEEN HIT WITH SAID CURSE BEFORE AND DID NOT DIE._

Harry was forced to admit that this was true – this was in fact the very reason he was called the Boy-Who-Lived, but he thought that had been a fluke.

"So the same thing happened again?" he asked. Could it have, though? He didn't have any memories of this place, where he did of the green light, of his parents, of flying.

_NO._

"Then what?"

_DUE TO OLD MAGIC, VOLDEMORT'S KILLING CURSE COULD NOT HARM YOU. ALL IT COULD HARM WAS SOMETHING WHICH WAS NEVER MEANT TO EXIST IN THE FIRST PLACE._

One of the Reaper's long, bony fingers pointed to the child-like _thing_ that had been shoved under the seat, discarded like unattended baggage.

Harry blinked.

"You know what it is, don't you?"

_A BROKEN PIECE OF A FRIGHTENED SOUL._

"What."

How had such a thing? But he knew…almost unbidden, Harry's hand moved to touch his scar, but it wasn't there. The skin was smooth and unblemished.

_ASK._

"It's part of Voldemort's soul, isn't it?" Harry half-asked, half sighed, feeling his stomach sink. "That's why I could feel him, why it hurt when he looked at me."

_YES, AND YOU ARE HERE BECAUSE IT WAS LINKED TO YOUR OWN._

This was not as big a shock as it might have been once. Harry had wondered sometimes why others thought he was like the Dark Lord - was it because he had carried around a piece of the Dark Wizard's soul for all these years?

"So what happens now? To it…and to me?"

That was the important question, really. If he was both alive and dead, what would Death do with him?

_THE SOUL FRAGMENT I WILL KEEP. ITS FATE IS CONTINGENT ON THAT OF THE WIZARD FROM WHICH IT FIRST CAME. YOUR FATE IS YOURS TO CHOOSE._

"To choose?"

_YOU MAY BOARD THE TRAIN OR GO BACK._

"And where will that train take me?" he asked, though Harry had a feeling he knew. Where else could it go, but the world beyond?

_YOU ALREADY KNOW._

"…my parents are there, aren't they?" he whispered, an icy chill of certainty racing down his spine, as he thought about what it would be like to see them again.

_THEY ARE._ _YOU COULD JOIN THEM, IF YOU WISHED._

The two who had died for him. The parents who he could barely remember, who had left him to the Dursleys. If he took the train he could join them.

If he took the train – went onwards – he wouldn't ever have to suffer again. He could leave pain, sorrow, heartbreak, and more behind, lay down the burdens and expectations others had placed on him.

He wouldn't have to be a hero if he didn't want to be.

It was…tempting.

Tempting beyond words.

But it was a temptation he couldn't accept, because his friends were still in danger. Shinji. Sokaris. The Weasleys. Even Hillard. They'd come with him on this mad quest that he would have undertaken alone if he had to, not because they had to, but because they chose to.

Because they were his comrades and believed in him. They trusted him enough to put their lives on the line for something that was his duty to do.

He couldn't leave just them to die in his place. Especially not at the hands of the person he was called a hero for killing, a Dark Wizard who had never truly died. Quirrell – no – Voldemort – was very much alive, and had said that he'd deal with Harry's friends with his own wand.

He had nothing to fight with, but he had to take responsibility for this mess.

He had to do _something._

He had to go back.

_YOU HAVE MADE YOUR DECISION?_

"I have," Harry answered, his green eyes looking into Death's empty sockets. "I'm going back. I'm not going to leave my friends behind."

_VERY WELL._

The skeleton seemed to give a slight bow.

_UNTIL NEXT WE MEET, HARRY POTTER. _

The world began to fade, but as it did, Death added one more comment, almost as an afterthought.

_ONE REQUEST. __BE MINDFUL OF MY CLOAK. _

Harry was about to ask more, but before he could, the world faded fully into nothingness, the station vanishing as if it was never there to begin with, as he fell down, down, down into a void. Still, at least this time, emptiness had the decency to seem darker than black.

* * *

><p>When he came to, he could feel cold hard stone beneath his back, the hinge of his glasses which had been knocked sideways by the fall cutting into his temple, and the tight roughness of Quirrell's conjured ropes chafing his wrists and legs. Every inch of him ached, and the place where Killing Curse had hit him felt like the bruise of an iron-clad punch.<p>

He tasted blood in his mouth, and the smells of burnt metal and flesh mingled in his nostrils.

Familiar, yet noxious, they made him want to gag, to retch, to heave out what little was in his stomach, but he resisted, forcing himself to focus on what else might be out there.

But he heard nothing.

The sound and fury that had echoed in the chamber, the sound of combat he half-expected to hear, all of it was gone. All he could hear was the song of a meadowlark.

And the morning sun was warm on his face.

_Wait. What?!_

Harry's eyes flew open as he realized just how wrong these things were, bolting upright – or rather, trying to, but finding himself restrained by the still-extant bonds Quirrell had conjured. Still, he did his best to look around and see just had happened.

In the middle of the room, two clawed feet were all that remained of the Mirror of Erised, with the rest having been destroyed by Quirrell in the blast that had knocked Sokaris off her feet and let him stun her.

The room itself was a shattered ruin. Rubble was everywhere, and stone walls and ceiling were marred and webbed with scorch marks and cracks.

In at least one place, the ceiling had collapsed completely, revealing – high above – the light of the rising sun, with the charred remains of a body – barely recognizable as Quirrell's due to the turban – crushed by rubble, with only the head and hands protruding.

Near the figure's hand, glinting in reflected light, were two mangled wands. One was the blackened, broken remnants of what his foe had been holding – the olive wand that had belonged to Sokaris.

The other was Harry's own wand – the length of holly broken in two, its two halves of holly barely connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather.

Even the black flames that had blocked the entrance to the room had gone out, as if blown out by a giant's breath – though right past where it had been was a trail of ash and the burnt remains of a potions satchel, as if something or _someone_ had been caught in a massive wave of force and hurled through the fire.

And of the Philosopher's Stone, there was no trace.

* * *

><p>This was the scene that Filius Flitwick discovered during his morning stroll around the castle grounds, with the diminutive head of Ravenclaw House immediately alerting his fellow instructors to begin a search and rescue operation.<p>

Potter was the most fortunate, being largely uninjured, but he had to be sedated and levitated out, as he wasn't in any state to move, looking at the door and repeating the name _Sokaris _over and over again.

The other Stone Cutters were not as fortunate, and they needed to be taken to St. Mungo's for immediate treatment.

The Weasley Twins had been found unconscious, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, with splinters of broken bones protruding through the skin.

Matou Shinji had been found cold and blue, with shards of broken flasks stabbed into his stomach and his leg crushed under rubble.

Robert Hillard had several fractured ribs, blood running from his mouth, and burns over much of his body – it would be weeks before he fully recovered.

And the body of Sialim Sokaris would never be found.


	28. Disillusion

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 28:<strong> _Disillusion_

At St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the Healers were hard at work tending to the Stone Cutters, for even with the benefit of magic, treating serious injuries was no laughing matter. Granted, simple fractures could be knit back together with ease and cuts healed, but things like burns from magical fire, primary blast injuries and exposure to the effects of strange and deadly potions was something else entirely.

Often, on their rounds, they would shake their heads at the antics that those outside got up to, given that in spite of every lesson drilled into childrens' heads by the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_, some would inevitably end up thinking that magic was a panacea, when it was anything but that. Yes, magic could cure, but it could also harm, and what it broke was usually much harder to fix.

Household spells horribly miscast. Cauldrons exploding. Wands breaking. Broom crashes. A wizard overdosing on an over the counter potion by mistake, or worse, a gluttonous child devouring brownies they hadn't known were enchanted – but their parents had, because they were the ones who'd enchanted them. And of course, the myriad of troubles one could get into while being drunk on fire-whiskey or other mind altering substances.

It was a difficult thing to be a Healer, especially when one saw certain patients coming in on a regular basis for the same injuries, illnesses, or root cause to their injuries, be it spell damage or what have you. One's bedside manner tended to become quite strained when that happened after perhaps the third time one discharged someone for the same thing.

Hit Wizards and Aurors were usually given a pass on this, because it was quite literally their job to be the thin red line that stood between the general public and the dangers that lurked out there. And well, one couldn't quite fault Unspeakables either, given that the Department of Mysteries actually looked into areas of magic most did not even dare to (and weren't authorized to learn about).

But in dealing with everyone else, it was a natural thing to become frustrated, especially when so much of what they saw was so easily _preventable_.

In their off hours, or even in the small reprieves they had, Healers often commiserated at the utter stupidity of people who ended up as their patients, a reaction shared by Muggle health professionals, especially those who had ever worked in an emergency room in a major urban hospital.

(Though Muggle doctors would likely disagree with Healers' assertions that Muggles had better sense, given the sheer volume of what a general hospital tended to see, particularly those close to university campuses, where each weekend brought in a new round of young people suffering from alcohol poisoning or alcohol related issues)

Both would likely agree however, that they lived in quite a mad, mad world, where they were probably the only ones halfway to being sane.

Even then, it was only halfway.

And sometimes, after a long, long day of treating injuries on children and otherwise fighting the good fight, all they wanted was a shot of Firewhiskey themselves, so they wouldn't have to think about what they'd seen.

The latest cases from Hogwarts – four students suffering from the effects of a point blank Blasting Curse – had been rough. The redheads had been remarkably fortunate, all things considered. Dislocations and broken bones weren't _that_ hard to heal, even if they were open compound fractures with the possibility of infection.

The oriental kid had been a more serious case, given his condition. Acute compartment syndrome, where pressure built up in an isolated area after traumatic injury, was a very dangerous thing – and that wasn't even taking into account the exposure to strange potions, the myocardial contusion, or the punctured lung.

They'd barely managed to save his life – no small feat, given how long it had been after the injury had occurred.

And the oldest of the kids – well, that had been a close thing too. With third-degree burns over much of much of his body, fractured ribs, damaged lungs and eardrums, it had taken all the team had to keep him stable, and it would take weeks before he fully recovered.

Their only question was what could have caused this?

Generally they only saw this kind of damage on Hit Wizards, Aurors, and others who had reason to fight Dark Wizards.

* * *

><p>Not that they were only ones wondering what exactly had happened, or concerned as to the extent of the damage. Albus Dumbledore, for instance, lost a great deal of sleep over the incident, as he had every reason to suspect the worst.<p>

Granted, news of what had happened in his absence had let him conclude negotiations with Cornelius and Lucius more favorably than anticipated, as it served to underscore why _he_ was needed at Hogwarts. Indeed, he'd managed to escape anything more serious than being put on probation by the Board of Governors and the loss of his position of British representative to (and Supreme Mugwump of) the International Confederation of Wizards, with the Ministry insisting that he focus his attention on his duties at Hogwarts.

A small price, really, given how little real power the International Confederation of Wizards really had. The only power it had was generally what its members agreed to give it, which wasn't always much, due to the various states' insistence on their individual sovereignty. If one had any awareness of Muggle world history, one might liken it to the now-defunct League of Nations, only even more stripped down in scale, as there was no international court.

And so he'd agreed to their terms, with Fudge promising to suspend Hagrid's sentence and release the man in a few days in return for a _favor_ of some sort in the future, saying that he would not press charges against McGonagall as a courtesy.

When he returned to the Castlel, Filius had briefed him on what he'd found.

A gaping hole in the ground, leading to the chamber with the Philosopher's Stone.

Professor Quirrell crushed by rubble.

Four students sent to St. Mungo's. One missing and presumed dead.

The Boy-Who-Lived hit with a Killing Curse – with a scar to prove it – and once more surviving.

To all appearances, the events of over a decade ago had repeated themselves, with the curse rebounding on the Voldemort possessed Quirrell due to the protection that Lily's sacrifice had granted, with the resultant backlash not only destroying the caster, but utter devastating the chamber in which the confrontation had occurred, much as the Potter house at Godric's Hollow had been blown apart by the failed spell.

If that were indeed the case, then it was a simple matter to conclude that the Philosopher's Stone had been destroyed in the blast…but Albus Dumbledore wasn't so sure.

He'd been Flamel's apprentice for some time, after all, and he knew _enough_ about alchemy to know that there should have been some residue of the Stone had it truly been destroyed.

…which there wasn't.

Which meant that very likely, the Stone had indeed been stolen.

The question was – who had done it?

Severus and Flitwick, of course, were above suspicion due to their loyalty, and while Hagrid knew of the Stone, he had no use for it himself, and would never _willingly_ harm a student.

(He did grudgingly admit that the half-giant did not know his own strength, and might hurt someone accidentally. And that, given the recent incident, his love for dangerous animals needed to be reined in.)

And while he supposed that yes, Nicolas Flamel _might _have returned and reclaimed his Stone after sensing it was in danger, or had woven enchantments into it to make it 'port away on its own, he didn't think that was the case.

Which left those who had been in the room.

Well, one person who had been in the room, and one wraith.

The missing student Sokaris…and the wraith of Voldemort.

Quirrell, of course, was quite dead.

Dumbledore had examined the corpse personally to confirm this, as well as to verify if there were indeed traces of Voldemort's soul within him – which there had been – though he would have suspected the man to show more signs of decay unless he were _willingly_ being possessed. Clearly, he'd been acting of his own volition for at least some time, but it just impossible to know just how much.

As for the missing Ravenclaw, Sialim Sokaris, the obvious conclusion was that she had been burned up in the fire blocking the entrance to the chamber, hurled through it by the shock wave of a rebounded Killing Curse.

And certainly, the destroyed wand, and pile of ashes suggested just that – that she had been swept away and consumed by enchanted fire.

But the evidence wasn't concrete, and Dumbledore wasn't sure.

Indeed, he'd been suspicious enough to consult one of his specialized instruments as to the health and whereabouts of Sialim Sokaris – an enchanted clock that, given the name of a student or faculty member – could display whether the person named was in class, on the grounds of Hogwarts, elsewhere, or dead.

The result had been "Dead," and his instruments had never steered him wrong.

He had checked on the status of Sialim Eltnam or Sialim Eltnam Sokaris after learning of the girl's boggart from the mind of the Boy-Who-Lived, but the result had been unchanged.

But that meant only that her soul was gone, that the person who had been Silaim Sokaris no longer existed on this earth.

What he suspected – but couldn't prove – was that Voldemort had used her body to escape with the Stone, and that he might have had an earlier influence, given her pattern of reclusive behavior, her knowledge of the castle, and more. There was even the fact that she had seen Quirrell release a troll into the main building but had done nothing about it, not even attempted to report the man (regardless of if she would be believed).

And perhaps most damning of all, in the memories of the Boy-Who-Lived, she had been the first one to suggest stealing the Stone.

Still, whether it was or not, there wasn't anything he could say.

He couldn't say he suspected the girl might still be alive – not without a good reason for it, and the last thing he wanted to do was admit to the rest of the Wizarding World that he had arranged for the Philosopher's Stone to be used as bait for Lord Voldemort – that the man himself might still be alive.

If his suspicions – that Voldemort had escaped with the Stone – were correct, it wouldn't matter anyway, as the Dark Wizard would use the Elixir of Life to revive himself, and that would be the end of it.

What it meant for him was that he needed to begin preparing for a possible war, without the Ministry knowing exactly what he was up to. A difficult task that if it involved reactivating the Order as a whole, but he could take some preliminary steps.

…right after he informed his old friend Nicolas Flamel that the Philosopher's Stone had been lost, destroyed in a conflict between Voldemort and the Boy-who-Lived. He didn't much like to lie, but in some cases, it was justified.

Nicolas and his wife would die once their small stockpile of Elixir of Life ran out, and he didn't want them to go onto their next great adventure knowing that their greatest invention would likely play a role in the resurrection of Lord Voldemort. No man or woman deserved something like _that_ on their conscience, especially as it was something they would never be able to make right.

Something _he_ would never be able to make right.

Yet another sin on the conscience of a weary, weary soul.

* * *

><p>As the Stone Cutters recovered in St. Mungo's, Shinji had a lot of time to think about what had gone wrong, and just what had happened. From he'd managed to piece together, he thought Quirrell must have simply followed in their wake, since after they'd entered the underground chambers, they had been far too focused on the obstacles to check for anything less than obvious.<p>

Hillard had been right – invisibility really did make them sloppy.

But, being honest, he wasn't sure if their tricks would have worked against Quirrell even had they not been ambushed.

After all, all the man – the dark practitioner of witchcraft – had needed was one spell to defeat them all. What Quirrell – Voldemort - was capable of was far beyond anything Matou Shinji could do, anything the Stone Cutters could have mustered against him.

And that was sobering, because aside from his encounter with his grandfather, this was his first real brush with death.

The first time he'd faced the cold reality of combat – that there would be times, even with magic, even with everything he learned, that he would come up short.

That he too, could die.

It wasn't nice to think about, but what else was there to do as he lay in a hospital bed, taking potions and being tended to as necessary.

There wasn't anyone he could talk to.

There wasn't a television he could watch.

There weren't even any books available for him to read, just an unfamiliar ceiling to stare at and the occasional Healer or other visitor who came to check on him.

Headmaster Dumbledore had been gracious, even concerned for his well-being, and had been kind enough to let him know how the others were doing. But as Shinji suspected, the man had questions about what had happened down in the chambers.

Why had they gone down there? Why had they chosen this particular time to go? How had they gotten around the obstacles?

Shinji didn't trust the man as far as he could throw him, since the Headmaster _had_ after all, set up the trap in the first place, but he answered some of the questions anyway. Mostly those relating to how they'd overcome the obstacles and what had happened after, given that, considering where they'd been found and what had happened, it wasn't as if anything else could happen to them.

He skipped over insignificant details like Sokaris' or Potter's boggarts, or indeed why they had chosen to begin their heist at this particular time as opposed to some other.

And then Dumbledore had taken off his glasses and offered Shinji his condolences on the passing of his friend, Sialim Sokaris.

Shinji's face had frozen in shock.

_No_.

It wasn't possible. She couldn't be dead. Sokaris had known more than he, hatched the plan, made them aware of the threat Quirrell posed. She had fought alongside them, worked alongside them…been his friend.

She just couldn't be…

But the Headmaster had shaken his head, as Shinji remembered.

Quirrell.

After dealing with them, there was only one realistic thing for him to do, wasn't there?

To claim the Stone.

"Then…is the Stone…?"

He had to know. Had to. At the moment, he needed it like he needed air. Because if they'd failed, if Quirrell had gotten the Stone anyway, despite everything…

"The Dark Wizard who ambushed you was stopped when his Killing Curse rebounded from the Boy-Who-Lived," Dumbledore had replied gravely. "He did not succeed in his aims. But your friend, Sialim Sokaris, is dead._"_

The man had continued talking then, mentioning that given the valor of his actions, Shinji and the other Stone Cutters would be given a Special Award for Services to the School_,_ but the boy from the east stopped paying attention after that.

Sometime later – he didn't know how long – another man had come to visit him, a long-haired blond dressed in robes of black who bore more than a passing resemblance to Draco Malfoy.

The man introduced himself as Lucius, Draco's father and the Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors and congratulated him on his valour, as it was unusual to find a first year willing to stand against a Dark Wizard, even with the aid of the Boy-Who-Lived and Hogwart's Defense Professor.

It was fortunate for Shinji that shock had made him numb, or he wouldn't have been able to keep a straight face.

Really. Stand against a Dark Wizard with the aid of the _Defense Professor?_

How could that be, when Quirrell was the one who…

Shinji felt an incredible sense of betrayal. What kind of story was going around – and was spreading it? To his mind, there could only be one person responsible…

_Albus Dumbledore_.

But Shinji wasn't about to set the record straight, not when someone important was praising him, so he'd simply nodded and thanked the man, mentioning that it was quite an honor for the Board's chairman to go out of his way to visit a first year.

The man had offered an apology for his son's reckless actions – unbefitting of a scion of the House of Malfoy – and his sympathies for Shinji's loss.

As a token of his sincerity, he'd given the boy one other thing: a blue-bound journal, stamped with the name of T.M. Riddle, saying that if Matou Shinji ever felt the need to share his thoughts, this living text might serve.

"Why are you giving this to me? Isn't it…"

…valuable? The _Book of Spells _certainly was, and that was one example of a "living" tome, though Budge's _Book of Potions _came closer to being alive.

"The House of Malfoy is generous to the worthy," the Malfoy patriarch had explained. And it was true. Though Shinji didn't know it, they were one of the richest of the families of Wizarding Britain, and their money could be found behind almost every winning candidate for Minister. "And given your achievements, you are certainly that. Indeed, my son could stand to learn a thing from you concerning how best to befriend those in power."

With that, the man had departed as well, leaving Shinji with many more things to think about – and a journal with which to occupy his time. Well, he certainly wasn't going to put his most private thoughts to paper, as he wasn't sure there weren't tracking charms or something else woven into the book, but there was no harm in amusing himself, right?

He flipped through the pages, checking to make sure they were indeed all blank before taking out a self-inking quill.

He dripped a blot onto the first page of the diary, raising an eyebrow as it shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, vanished.

**Hello**, he wrote.

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something happened.

Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, came words Shinji had never written.

**Hello. My name is Tom Riddle. Who might you be?**

So…it _was_ an enchanted book. Well, this could be interesting indeed. But, he figured there was no need to be honest about who he was. In Shinji's experience, lies often worked better than truth. So, it seemed only fitting that he thought of the most powerful practitioner of witchcraft he had encountered - why, the very one the Dark Lord himself had once feared - and had borrowed his name as a talisman to conjure by.

To him_,_** My name is Albus Dumbledore**, seemed a most appropriate response.

Unfortunately, the diary didn't seem to agree, as "Tom" promptly stopped writing after that.

* * *

><p>It wasn't particularly a surprise that Harry took the news worst of all, given his nightmares, and his greatest fear.<p>

Sokaris was dead because of him. She was dead because he hadn't been able to do more, because he hadn't actually killed off Voldemort all those years ago.

Rationally, given that they – as students – had faced the might of You-Know-Who and _lived_, what they had accomplished could be considered a miracle, an overwhelming success.

But Harry didn't feel that way.

One of his friends was dead and _nothing_ could truly make up for that.

He had thought himself resolved, had known in his mind that Quirrell was a Dark Wizard, but after everything he'd done, it had still come as a shock when he'd crushed them so mercilessly.

But more than that, when he'd simply admitted that yes, he was Voldemort, meaning that Harry had sat in class listening to the greatest practitioner of the Dark Arts the Wizarding World had ever known talk about how fear was the worst of all enemies. It meant that the one he had showed his skills to, who had _praised _him for his deeds, was his nemesis.

And he wasn't at all sure that it was the soul fragment that had let him become who he was – the empty shell of a hero they called The Boy-Who-Lived.

The Boy-Who-Lived-When-Others-Died.

The boy who could survive the greatest of the Unforgivables, when everyone else knew that to be instant death.

But his ability wasn't simply survival, as Albus Dumbledore explained, clearing up a point that Death had made in that place that he still wasn't sure was real.

"Your mother died to save you, my boy," the old man said, sighing very deeply. "And if there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. Voldemort assumed that love was weak, but it is not. It is fierce and strikes back at those who attempt to hurt what it would protect."

"…what happened the last time, sir?"

"The house at Godric's Hollow was destroyed, Harry, when the force of the spell rebounded."

Harry trembled then, part in grief, part in rage, part…an emotion he didn't even have the words to describe.

"Why?"

"Why what, Harry?" the Headmaster asked.

"If it's a protection born of love, why didn't it just hurt _him_ – not the House, not…"

_Sokaris._

Albus Dumbledore looked very solemn then as he explained to Harry that even he didn't know. This was Old Magic, with rules of its own, rules that no wizard alive truly knew. But the important thing was, he said, that Harry was safe, that Voldemort had been stopped, that—

But Dumbledore was forced to stop when the Boy-Who-Lived had keeled over, vomiting up the contents of his stomach, acid, bile and who knew what else dripping onto his office's stone floor. He waited for the boy to finish, then simply vanished the mess.

"So he…could never hurt me with his magic?" Harry managed in a very small voice.

"Not with the curses he favors," Dumbledore replied. "But something else might have sufficed. A conjured rope used to strangle, or a rock used to crush."

Voldemort couldn't have hurt him directly...and yet his friends had risked their lives – one of them had even given hers – to protect him.

To protect someone who didn't need it. Who didn't deserve it.

…who frankly, didn't deserve anything at all.

"No…" Harry said. There was hurt in his voice, pain mingled with anger and grief and something else. He remembered their conversation – the last full one they'd had – while the others had fought the troll, where she had told him that he had done something most would not be able to. That in the moment he had stopped the TATARI, he had become a hero.

She had told him that if he could not believe himself a hero, to simply imagine what a hero would do and become it, to focus on what he wanted to be until the act was indistinguishable from reality.

…exactly what TATARI had accused her of doing in the end.

But it worked.

Believing that they could succeed, that they would get the Stone and get out safely was what had given him the strength to move forward, the strength to push aside his fears of what could happen and trust the others.

But that strength had been a lie.

"With all due respect, Headmaster, what's the point of this protection if it cost one of my closest friends her life?"

"Harry, I understand it—"

"What's the point of love when it saves nothing except someone who didn't want to be saved?!"

Dumbledore swallowed. For the Boy-Who-Lived to reject love…that was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"You saved the other Stone Cutters," the Headmaster pointed out, closing his eyes. "If the protection hadn't stopped Quirrell, he would have killed them. Is that what you wanted, Harry?"

"No….I…."

That wasn't it at all. He just…he just….

It wasn't enough. He should have done more. Letting one die to save five didn't make someone a hero.

"I wanted to stop him. But I wanted Sokaris to live."

His expression was pure anguish as he pictured what it must have been like to burn alive. To be consumed, burned to ash.

He only hoped that she hadn't woken up after Quirrell had hit her with the Stunner, otherwise, it would probably have been agony.

And the thought of his friend in pain was more painful than _Avada Kedavra_ would have been.

"Did you know, sir?" he asked quietly.

"Know what, Harry?"

"Did you know Quirrell was Voldemort?"

Dumbledore now became very interested in Fawkes, the phoenix, who simply sat there without a single sound, looking at the two.

"Harry," Dumbledore said with a pained expression. "Please, try to understand—"

And with that, the Boy-Who-Lived lost his temper.

"There's nothing to understand, sir! You did or you didn't. Which was it?! Either you knew – in which case why didn't _you_ stop him, since you're the only one he ever feared – or you didn't, in which case, why did you turn Hogwarts into a trap? Did you just not care about what happened to any of us?! Did you not care about your students?"

"Harry…I…"

"You didn't care. _And Sokaris died."_

The Boy-Who-Lived stared at the Headmaster of Hogwarts, his rage making him forget all proprieties of age and station, as the old man sagged, looking every one of his years.

"Nicolas Flamel will die too," Dumbledore said, after a few minutes had passed. "You know of him, I assume? Well, the Stone was destroyed, Harry. Without it, he and his wife have enough Elixir of Life stored away to set their affairs in order, but then, they will die."

"I see."

"But that is not _your_ fault. It is mine," the headmaster admitted, taking a deep, heavy breath. "But then, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

It sounded good, and echoed the certainty he half-recalled from the in-between place, where he knew that going on would have led to a place free of aches and suffering, but…

"Then what's the point of living at all, Headmaster? If death is just another adventure, then why do people grieve? Why is the Killing Curse the worst of the Unforgiveables? Why is a killer like Voldemort spoken of in fear?"

"Because our choices in life are what make us who we are, Harry," Dumbledore answered. "And the fact that people like Voldemort separate us from those we love. They send them to another world, where we cannot yet join them."

"But we can, Headmaster."

There was an odd look in Harry's eyes as he murmured this, and Dumbledore sat up, alarmed.

"Harry…you're not thinking of hurting yourself, are you?"

"I just seem to get people hurt, Headmaster. And if death really is an adventure, shouldn't I just make the choice to move on before more people are hurt because of me?"

And that was the frightening thing about his philosophy – that if Death really was just the next big adventure, then there was no reason _not_ to die, and every reason to, if one didn't like the life one was leading.

"Harry, your mother died so you could live," Dumbledore said reproachfully. "She would not want you to join her so soon, without living a full life of your own."

It wasn't a very good response, but then there weren't good answers when it came to death. Without the Resurrection Stone, no one really knew what lay beyond the Veil, except for those who had already made the journey and could not come back.

"A life filled with nightmares, Headmaster? Maybe it would be better if she hadn't. That way, I would be with them instead of just seeing them die – hearing them – reliving their murder every night in my dreams. I wouldn't have dragged everyone else into this mess because they think I'm a hero when it was my mother who died. I wouldn't have lost Sokaris…"

Dumbledore felt a cold shiver going down his spine. This reminded him too much of an old memory. A memory involving a three way duel and a bystander who had been killed – his very sister. The reason he feared to act, even today, as who else might be harmed in the process by his actions?

"Don't blame yourself, Harry. There's nothing…"

"_Then tell me what to blame."_

Dumbledore shook his head. He didn't want to share what he knew yet, but right now, it would be a mistake if he didn't. There was a very real possibility that Harry Potter would try to hurt himself, and he couldn't have that – not just because of who the boy was and what he represented, but because if Potter died, Albus Dumbledore would have no more standing – and even Snape would probably desert him.

As would be right – because Dumbledore would have utterly failed.

"There was a prophecy made about you," he said, finally.

Whatever Harry had expected, it wasn't that.

"…what."

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."_ Dumbledore quoted, reciting the portion that Severus Snape had once overheard and told the Dark Lord. "That was you, Harry."

It took some time for that to sink in. Harry had wondered if there was something of that sort, but he'd never expected an actual prophecy.

"Did my parents know?" he asked at last, seeming far older than eleven.

"They did," Dumbledore said. "I told them for their own safety, as Voldemort would have stopped at nothing to kill you, knowing this."

"…I wonder if they ever really loved me then," Harry said, his eyes looking somewhere into the distance. "If it really was love that moved them, and not just the hope that I would one day vanquish a Dark Lord?"

"Harry…"

But the Boy-Who-Lived just looked away, remaining silent for a time.

"Because if it was love, why would it hurt so many people? Why would they leave me with the Dursleys? Why would they send me to a family that thought I was a _freak_, that _freakishness_ had to be beaten out of me, or starved from me? Why would they let me think I was a monster for ten years of my life, that they were layabouts who died _in a car accident_? Why would they let me have no friends, no childhood, nothing at all? Tell me, Headmaster, does that sound like love to you?"

Put that way, it really didn't.

"That was my doing," Dumbledore admitted, almost afraid of the conclusions Harry would reach otherwise. "I placed you with the Dursleys for your protection."

"My…_protection?"_

"There is another charm, you see, that prevents harm from coming to you from Voldemort while you live in the house of someone related to you."

"…but not from my relatives."

"Harry…"

"Is there any other reason, Headmaster? Because that's not good enough."

"Because everyone else was dead."

Everyone else who wasn't in Azkaban, that was.

That stopped Harry's rant before it could begin.

"_Everyone_ else?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Everyone…died…to protect me," he concluded grimly, his body shuddering as he looked down at his hands and imagined them stained with countless deaths, with the stained dreams of all those who had trusted in him. When he'd first boarded the Hogwarts Express, he had thought that whatever lay ahead would have to be better than what lay behind. But this…

He laughed, a hollow, broken, bitter laugh.

"And for _that_ I'm a hero? Because everyone trusted a prophecy and laid down their lives? All for something that only came to pass because of what my mother sacrificing herself? Why isn't _she_ the hero?"

"…because, my boy, she was just a Muggleborn witch," Dumbledore said sadly. "And you were the Child of Prophecy. People, even witches and wizards, need to believe in someone, to have a reason to hope, and you, the Boy-Who-Lived, were a symbol that was the War was over. That Voldemort's reign had been cut short. That they no longer had to live in fear."

Harry looked very troubled, closing his eyes and turning away.

For a long while, he said nothing, with Dumbledore eventually thinking that perhaps he should get the boy back to bed, but…

"…then it's my job to finish what my mother started," Harry murmured, holding an upraised hand in front of his eyes. "I'll become a hero – a hero who can save everyone. Who won't have to let anyone else die for him."

"Harry…"

"Voldemort isn't dead."

"No. He's not."

"And I'm the only one who can stop him?"

"So the prophecy says."

"Then stop him I will. And anyone else who would be like him. Whether death is a great adventure or not, I just know one of my friends is dead. And if I can't bring her back, I will end Voldemort myself."

Or die trying.

"Well, this old man won't stand in your way," Dumbledore replied. "But allow me to do something for you, Harry."

He held up the broken halves of the holly and phoenix feather wand Harry had called his own, the brother to the one that had given Harry his scar.

"My wand," Harry said in recognition, cringing as he remembered where he'd last seen it. "But even Professor Snape said it couldn't be fixed."

For the first time in that conversation, Albus Dumbledore smiled.

"It was also once thought that the Killing Curse could not be stopped," the old wizard said, looking at Harry's scar. "And if there are things about magic that I don't know, there are surely things you don't, yes?"

He drew forth his wand, an old, worn looking thing with carvings that resembled clusters of elderberries running down its length.

"_Reparo!"_

With one spell, the halves of the broken wand came together, with red sparks flying out of the end as they resealed themselves. Harry reached out wonderingly and picked it up, feeling a sudden warmth in his fingers, as though wand and hand were rejoicing at their reunion.

"Thank you," Harry said. He was about to get up, but worked up the courage to say something else, to ask something else. "Can I ask you something?"

"You have, but yes, you may ask something else."

"Can I please go somewhere besides back to the Dursleys this summer?"

He didn't want to be there. Didn't want to go back. Didn't want to be reminded of how he failed – and would fail. He did enough to himself if he were being honest about it.

Dumbledore frowned.

"I'm afraid I must insist. While you can still call the Dursley residence home, you cannot be touched or directly harmed by Voldemort. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you."

"And if I stayed there a while, but went somewhere else?"

Dumbledore sighed.

"Where would you go, Harry?" he asked. He knew how delicate the situation was, given what he needed from the boy, and what was yet to come, so he would make some concessions if he had to.

Only one place really came to mind.

"Japan," the Boy-Who-Lived answered.

It was about as far away from here as he could imagine, yet one of his friends was there – the one who had always stood by him, supported him. And the one who would best understand how it felt that Sokaris…

Harry shivered once more, shaking his head.

"I will see what I can do, my boy," Dumbledore said, his lips tight. "That is all I can promise. But you must stay at least a month with the Dursleys."

"Very well, Headmaster. Good night."

"Good night, Harry."

* * *

><p>There were only three other events of note that year.<p>

The first was a ceremony in which the Harry Potter, Sialim Sokaris, and Quirinus Quirrell were awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, for their valor in defending Hogwarts from a Dark Wizard – with the latter two given posthumously, as First Class variant of the award so often was.

As well, the other Stone Cutters had been awarded Orders of Merlin, Second Class, for achievement beyond the ordinary.

Given that they were still laid up in St. Mungo's, they had asked others to accept the award on their behalf, with Ronald Bilius Weasley and Percy Weasley representing the Twins, while Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater represented Matou Shinji and Robert Hillard, respectively.

And as expected, the press ate it up, though as usual, one publication got the details wrong, claiming that Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger had worked together as a team to defeat the obviously evil Defense Professor. Then again, the _Quibbler _had never been known as a source of accurate information, so the mistakes were largely ignored.

At least one tabloid did get a picture of Penelope and Percy together though, and wondered if they would be the latest power couple to come out of Hogwarts, which the two lovers were quite embarrassed to hear about – though they kept copies of the publication anyway.

The official story, as told by most publications, was that in Dumbledore's absence, a Dark Wizard had infiltrated Hogwarts castle, only to be confronted by valiant Defense against the Dark Arts instructor, Quirinus Quirrell, the members of the Stone Cutter Society, and a first year named Sialim Sokaris. Ultimately, the Dark Wizard had been defeated, though it had been a costly victory, with both Quirrell and Sokaris losing their lives in the fight.

People throughout Magical Britain looked at this and saw an example of heroes in the making, a core of brave souls built around the _Boy-Who-Lived, _the savior they already knew and revered. And this was good, both for the Ministry, who wanted to be seen as in touch with the public, and for Albus Dumbledore, reinforcing his image as the one being every Dark Wizard feared – who even You-Know-Who had feared.

Having to do things like this left a bitter taste in Dumbledore's mouth, but with the Board having placed him on probation and the Ministry scrutinizing his every move, the old man felt he had no choice. Image, in this case, was reality in the minds of most people, and since he needed to look like a powerful, wise wizard of the light, that meant he could not admit inconvenient truths…such as the fact that Quirrell had been a Dark Wizard.

Otherwise, people would wonder why Dumbledore hadn't known, since he had hired the man, with Quirrell working at the School for several years. Plus well, who would believe a Dark Wizard would have deigned to teach Muggle Studies?

So he'd come up with a plan to deceive the public, letting them believe what they would find easiest to swallow: that the Defense Professor had been a good man, and that the actions of the Stone Cutters had official sanction.

Harry had been very upset about this when Dumbledore had first talked to him about it in private, initially refusing to be a party to the foul business at all. The Boy-Who-Lived apparently did not believe that a bit of unpleasantness was sometimes necessary to advance the Greater Good.

As much as he hated the phrase, given that Grindelwald had used it to justify his many crimes, even as Dumbledore himself used it now and again himself to justify the more unsavoury things he was forced to do.

Such as this.

Or well, even forming the vigilante group called the Order of the Phoenix, since he hadn't believed the Ministry's response to be sufficient in the First Wizarding War. A war that had never really ended, only gone cold, as its chief instigator was still out there, waiting for an opportunity to return, as Quirrell's attempt to steal the Stone had demonstrated.

And for the coming war, he _needed_ the Boy-Who-Lived on his side, so he had talked Potter around by using his weakness – his friends. The Stone Cutters would be recognized as an honorable society of Hogwarts, and as Headmaster, he would give them access to the Founders' Tower, a tower which only they – and he – would have access to. And his friends would be seen as heroes, would have many opportunities, many doors opened for them if he simply agreed.

Would Harry really deny his friends a chance to succeed and recognized, after they'd risked their lives for him?

It was dirty. It was manipulative. It was crude.

But it worked.

Cornelius Fudge, in fact, had been more than happy to issue Orders of Merlin to the Boy-Who-Lived and the others, in exchange for a chance to appear on the front page with Harry Potter and the other young heroes, linking them in the public eye.

As well, Dumbledore had bestowed a Special Award for Services to the School to the Stone Cutters, which may have been a trifling thing in comparison to the Orders of Merlin (of whatever class), but was the highest honor he could personally bestow as Headmaster.

And of course, to seal the deal, he arranged for a second event – a memorial service, at which the students and faculty of Hogwarts would gather to mourn the passing of two of their own. While some mention of Quirinus Quirrell had been unavoidable, given the public version of the story, he did think it fair to eulogize the man he had been before the unfortunate encounter with Voldemort.

The brilliant young Ravenclaw who used to stutter when confronted by bullies, whose only wish had been that people would take him seriously. The man who had wanted to become a hero. A man who had died in battle, his life spent against a foe he could not beat.

…all of which was _technically_ true, even if the context were wrong.

And he had said kind things about Sialim Sokaris as well. The girl who had not only been a student Professor Snape had never complained about (a comment which drew a few chuckles from the crowd), but had found the courage to stood against a Dark Wizard as a first year. A girl from a distant land who had given her life in defense of the place where she had found her first friends.

Flitwick, whose house both Quirrell and Sokaris had once belonged to, had said his bit as well, and if he was more emotional than most, well – he was grieving for the loss of a friend as well as not one, but two students.

"_We grieve not simply for those who have passed, but also for those of us left behind and have no chance to better know them. We grieve for lives cut short, for potential that will never come to pass, and for what we have lost. But we remember their sacrifice, their bravery, their lives, and so long as we remember, as long as they inspire us to be better people, they live on in us. They were phoenixes – we are the flame. Let us go forth and set the world ablaze."_

Dumbledore had made sure the Stone Cutters were present at this, wearing the medals denoting their place in the Order of Merlin. And he allowed them to speak, as they were there at the end. They were there when the strength of others failed, when only two first years stood between a Dark Wizard and his goal.

And so far as anyone else knew, they had won.

The Boy-Who-Lived – Harry Potter – had spoken of a quiet girl who had no tolerance for idiocy, but who was not afraid to joke. A girl with demons and fears beyond what anyone should ever have to face – who – like him – had lost her family. A girl for which he would have given back all his honors, even the Order of Merlin, if it meant she was still alive.

He'd even cried – but once he left the stage, he'd found Slytherins all around him, supporting him. He was their Heir, of their House, and, if rumors were true, _immune to the Killing Curse._ He was the savior of Wizarding Britain, and anyone who caught his favor could rise far. So if he had lost someone close – who would step into her shoes? Still, while they might plot in private, in public the House of Snakes showed solidarity. Why, for once, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass did not bicker as each held one of his hands.

Even Draco Malfoy had held his peace. He knew from bitter experience that he could not oppose Potter directly and win, and if Potter ever found out that _he_ had been the one who had informed his father about Hagrid's illegal dragon, leading to the current set of unfortunate events, Draco was pretty sure Potter _would_ kill him...and quite possibly get away it, to boot.

He, along with Crabbe and Goyle, had simply offered the Boy-Who-Lived their condolences, and otherwise left Potter alone. After what his father had done for him, Draco thought Lucius might appreciate his attempt to reconcile with Potter, as that might possibly lead to a place among the Stone Cutters – Potter's inner circle.

Shinji, supported by his fellow Ravenclaw – the Muggleborn Hermione Granger, who had accepted his medal on his behalf only weeks prior, had spoken of someone who like him, was a stranger from another land. Of a girl who rarely smiled, but who looked out at the world every night with curious eyes. Who frankly didn't care about house divisions and other petty things, just who someone was and what they could do.

And he said to the crowd that of aside from his brothers of Stone, there was no one he trusted more.

Which hit Granger hard.

Hermione had already been mourning the loss of her first friend – the mysterious girl who had been the first one she'd spoken to on the train – the first one who'd ever truly approved of her. Sokaris had been a mystery to her in many ways, her academic and _maybe_ romantic rival (though she never figured out if the last bit were true), and her closest friend.

One day she'd been there in class, answering questions, brewing potions, casting spells.

And the next…she hadn't.

Neither had Shinji, and at first her mind had made her assume the worst…until she heard what had happened, and her heart broke.

And now that she was gone, Hermione thought maybe…maybe Sokaris had been right.

Maybe correcting everyone, insisting on what she thought was right, wasn't the best way to make people believe what she wanted them to – to learn. After all, the purple-haired girl's approach of laying out the circumstances and letting people reach the conclusions she wanted, instead of just telling them what she thought was true, worked far better.

It was almost as if Sokaris had experience in teaching people how to think; sometimes she reminded Hermione of a teacher herself. But it grieved her that she'd never learned much about the other girl, if she were truly being honest.

A few tidbits here and there like her interest in alchemy and mathematics, information about her wand, and that she enjoyed potions, yes, but no more.

The only one Sokaris really talked with – shared much more with – was Matou, and yes, Hermione had been a bit jealous about the time the two spent together, though as she didn't wake as early or sleep as late, she couldn't claim she had a better claim on Sokaris' time. She still didn't know why it bothered her so much they spent time together, since Matou well…he wasn't a bad person, per se, even if he was the kind of confident, powerful kind of boy who made people want to do what he said. It wasn't like she liked him or anything.

Really.

Even if she did make it a point to help him catch up on what he'd missed in his classes while he'd been out, even sharing the use of the _Book of Potions_ with him so he could brew the concoctions Professor Snape would demand as makeup.

She just wanted her friend to succeed in his studies, and to not look so sad as she rather preferred his smile.

But not like that. Really.

* * *

><p>The last memorable event of the year, aside from the end of year exams, OWLs, and NEWTs, was the Closing Feast. And no, it wasn't because Ravenclaw took the House Cup. Given that a preponderance of the Stone Cutters had come from there, few had been surprised.<p>

What _had _shocked people were the announcements of who would be teaching in the coming year – and who would be sacked.

Argus Filch would be retiring following this year, with worn-looking Rubeus Hagrid taking over as castle caretaker. But then, a few days in Azkaban tended to do that to anyone.

The famous ex-auror Alastor Moody, would be the next year's Defense against the Dark Arts instructor, given the possible danger of Dark Wizards.

…while Dumbledore had originally wished to hire Gilderoy Lockhart to discredit the man, this was no longer an option if there was even the slightest possibility that Voldemort had obtained the Philosopher's Stone. With the threat of the Dark Wizard's resurrection, he had contacted Alastor instead, as the (in)famous auror was well known not only for his combat ability, but his tactical thinking. Plus, the appointment of Alastor meant that an Auror Trainee, Nymphadora Tonks, would sometimes be teaching as well, something he thought would work well for the younger students and leave Moody less…well, moody.

But the old man had not completely tabled his plans for Lockhart, and so he'd devised a new plan to bring the fraud to Hogwarts – where being around Moody would no doubt make him slip in his act sooner or later.

As it so happened, he hadn't had to try very hard.

For nearly a century, students had complained about the History of Magic course taught by Professor Cuthbert Binns, with their dismal performance on their OWLs reflecting this. Indeed, it was something of an open secret that the class was considered a joke, with notes and old tests being passed down from year to year, and most students treating it as a time to nap.

While Gilderoy had been a little apprehensive about coming to Hogwarts after hearing about the death of a Defense Professor, on top of the fact that his fellow teachers knew him well from the time he'd attended the school, the mention of the Boy-Who-Lived – the youngest ever recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, as well as his circle of now famous friends had Lockhart falling over himself to accept before Dumbledore had finished laying out the terms.

As he rather thought it might, given the man's desire for fame. Though to be honest, he could hardly do worse than Binns.

So he was pleased to announce that Lockhart would be the new History of Magic Professor, a decision he imagined even his staff wouldn't contest. And for the elderly ghost, why, he would be teaching a new elective on the History of Wizard-Goblin Relations, as Goblin Rebellions had been his area of focus as a historian.

A few more things were said, and even more were done that night, but no more of such note or such import.

And with that, the term ended.


	29. Epilogue: Those Who Remain

_**Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone**_

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue:<strong> _Those Who Remain_

He looked out into the darkness of the night sky as the world hurtled past, traces of civilization hidden by the evening gloom. After a year at Hogwarts, it was odd to once more be on a train, to know that soon, he would be returning to the place where his story had truly started.

What awaited him when he arrived?

Not cheers, not even sympathy, as no one there knew of his adventures, of the things he'd endured, of the things he'd lost. Perhaps if he was lucky he'd see one of his brothers in arms again this summer, but for the moment, everything that had happened at Hogwarts seemed a world away.

And why should it not, when Matou Shinji had been summoned to _Mahoutokoro_ by a letter from the woman who had been his first real introduction to the moonlit world.

Aozaki Touko.

He wondered what she wanted, as the message itself had consisted of two words written on the back of a flyer for a Tanabata Festival in Kyoto – and one of those had been the older woman's last name.

The rest had been a single word: "Come."

So come he had, dressed in a fine yukata – a casual summer kimono - the color of his hair, as while he _could _attend a festival in street clothing, it would be just a bit gauche. And there was nothing Matou Shinji cared about more than his image.

Well, almost nothing.

It had been just over two weeks since he'd returned from Hogwarts to Fuyuki, paying his respects to the Second Owner, who'd seemed far more respectful – and perhaps a tad more formal – than the last time he'd seen her. She'd even invited him inside for tea, where the two had briefly exchanged a bit of information on what had happened in Fuyuki and what had happened abroad, with Shinji mentioning he had faced combat a few times that year, and for his deeds, had been inducted into a chivalric order.

None of the minor details, of course, since he didn't think Tohsaka needed to know such trivial things as the name of the order, the enemies he fought, or the exact circumstances involved.

And she didn't ask, knowing that to press too much was taboo for any magus.

She couldn't quite hide the curiosity in her eyes though – the questions she longed to ask about what the hell had happened to him in his year abroad, and what had become of the Matou Shinji she remembered. Neither could she hide a spark of envy that he'd been off having adventures out in the world – apparently making quite a name for himself as a practitioner of witchcraft – while she was in Fuyuki, where the only reason people deferred to her was because she was Second Owner.

Those that didn't – such as her guardian, that fake priest Kotomine Kirei – didn't seem to acknowledge her at all, as the man couldn't even seem to remember her favorite colors, having gotten her a set of clothing in blue and white. Though she was beginning to suspect it wasn't because he couldn't remember, as much as he was deliberately doing these things to goad her.

If only her father hadn't died in the Fourth War…

As the host, she had told him what had transpired in his absence, though she did mention that flaunting one's wealth in the form of presents was a bit tasteless. Not that she hadn't appreciated them, of course, but…

Shinji had nodded and said he would remember her preferences next time, something that made her a bit nervous for some reason – mainly because the thought that he had enough wealth for a _next time_ was more than a bit mindboggling, and she still wasn't sure of his intentions. Not that she'd have the chance to find out at that meeting, since their conversation had moved to small talk – not much of substance – just the usual complaints about the school year, which had just begun in April.

They'd parted soon after, with Shinji promising to keep her informed, and Rin left wondering what had just happened.

She'd had a civil conversation…over tea…with Shinji. She'd actually been _impressed_ by Matou Shinji.

…somehow, somewhere, she swore she could hear the master of the Second Magic laughing.

As for Shinji himself, the conversation reminded him of so many things he'd known in his mind but had half-forgotten – the school terms for instance, the first one starting in April and lasting until late July. And while the chance to sit down and have a proper cup of tea was certainly nice, the subdued tone of the encounter had just highlighted how different things really were.

In the coming days, the thought would come into his mind as he sat down for meals, enjoying the spices and tastes he'd grown up, but feeling a strange sense of distance with the people he'd once known. To a boy who'd spent a year adapting and learning how to function in Magical Britain, being back in Fuyuki often felt as if were stumbling through a fog, as if he had been looking upon his hometown from some high up place, and once part of the scene himself, found himself lost.

By this point, Matou Shinji was used to intrigue, excitement, conspiracy – and the way everything was subdued and hidden here didn't seem to fit.

It reminded him of one of the phases of the monomyth, which he'd read about in Joseph Campbell's _The Hero with a Thousand Faces_, which Hermione had sent him so he would have something to occupy himself with while he was in the hospital. Granted, he still thought her definition of light reading left something to be desired, but he'd appreciated it nonetheless, as it _had_ been interesting, and a welcome distraction from counting pocks and nicks on the ceiling.

When the letter came, he'd rejoiced, even as he wondered what she wanted, or why she wanted him to come to Kyoto on the first day of Tanabata, given the deep symbolism of the seventh day of the seventh month – a day when one's deepest wishes could be granted, with the meeting of the weaver princess Orihime and the cowherd Hikoboshi serving as perhaps the most well-known example.

But come he had.

* * *

><p>Soon enough, the train arrived at Kyoto station, with Shinji disembarking and looking around for the woman who'd summoned him, the magus he held as an example of everything a practitioner should be and sought to emulate.<p>

This time, though, it was easy, since the train station was mostly packed with black-haired people in yukata, while his quarry was a redhead wearing a very Western ensemble of tight black pants, white shirt, and an orange trenchcoat, with an unlit cigarette held between her teeth.

"Matou Shinji," she greeted, turning towards him as he approached. Somehow, she had picked him out from the crowd, which did make the boy feel rather good about himself, as it meant she had not forgotten him. "How was your year at Hogwarts?"

Aozaki Touko, the one who had first shown him to _Mahoutokoro_ – helped him acquire the various accessories and sundry of witchcraft – the one who had called him here.

"Aozaki-san," Shinji replied, giving her a deep, very respectful bow. Even with as much as he'd learned, he knew he was a very long way from ever being thought of as her equal – and he owed her much. "It was…eventful."

He didn't feel like saying more than that, not with the pain of loss still raw after several months.

It was hard for him to believe Sokaris was gone, as she'd always seemed more confident and put together than he was, even if she'd struggled at transfiguration and flying. And since he knew she was connected with the rest of the Moonlit World in some way – with a Dead Apostle Ancestor, no less! – he had thought she wouldn't simply vanish like that.

What had her goal been? He knew she had come looking for something, but what was it? Was it the Stone? Or was she looking for who she was?

The last was something Shinji could sympathize with even as he was shaping and finding out who he was, the work of reconciling expectation and reality never really quite finished.

"So I've heard," the redhead replied, critically eying the young practitioner of witchcraft over. "You've walked with death this year, worked on your craft, even befriended – and become a hero. How does it feel, Matou Shinji?"

How did it feel?

"Not as wonderful as I'd imagined," Shinji admitted with a deep sigh. "I thought I understood, but…" There were some things, like loss, that one had to experience to truly know, which outside observers wouldn't understand. "But you didn't call me here to ask about that, did you, Aozaki-san?"

The master puppeteer, Aozaki Touko, only laughed.

"You are perceptive, Matou," she said, hand moving briefly to light her cigarette. "I did not."

"…you're working for someone again."

Not the hardest conclusion to draw, given that she'd only guided him around _Mahoutokoro_ because she'd been paid to do so. He just wondered _who_ the client was this time, as he knew it wasn't Matou Zouken.

"Indeed," the magus answered, taking a long drag of nicotine. "Heads of the Three Great Branches usually find it inconvenient to communicate in writing with those of lower rank. It draws too much attention."

Shinji's mind slammed to a halt.

"What did you just say?" he asked, as something cold – fear maybe – shot through his veins.

"I don't believe you are deaf, Matou," came the cool reply.

But why…? How…?

"Which branch?"

He asked this nervously, his mouth rather dry as he wondered who might have actually taken note of him and why. From what he'd read, catching the attention of those who reigned high above other magi, such as the Master of the Second Magic, or the Queen of the Clock Tower, was rarely a good thing.

After all, that usually meant a Sealing Designation, with Enforcers shortly thereafter.

Or of course, as Zelretch was notorious for, the offer of an apprenticeship – usually driving any soul so unfortunate to renounce the world of magecraft forever, if that person lived long enough to do so.

More to the point, what could he have possibly done to get their attention? Why, the only artifact of note he'd encountered was…

_Ah. That._

…the Philosopher's Stone.

Which would mean that the branch who wanted him for questioning was—

"Atlas Academy," Touko answered, raising an eyebrow. "Which is unusual in itself, given their focus is usually within."

—the very one he feared most, given his involvement with an alchemist. Atlas was the most unpredictable of the Three Branches, as it was effectively was a law unto itself, an entity that acted apart from the Clock Tower, with its own treaties and agreements. And why wouldn't it be, given that within it were sealed enough weapons and artifacts to end the world seven times over?

"I see," Shinji said, swallowing as he wondered what he should do. In all likelihood, running would do no good. And if the Head of one of the Three Great Branches had taken the time to go through Aozaki Touko – and she hadn't disabled him by now – it was probably safe to assume that she hadn't been hired to kill or capture him. "Where to, then?"

"Why, Mahoutokoro," the puppeteer replied, a thin smile on her lips as she sauntered off, with Matou Shinji following in her wake.

The city air seemed festive, with streamers and banners about, people dressed in yukatas and formal dresses, with fireworks blazing overhead. Here, a parade passed by. There, lanterns made of woven bamboo drifted on a river, with the sweet scent of incense wafting from them.

The very trees they walked by were decked with strips of paper on which people had written their wishes.

Here and there, the aromas of sizzling Takoyaki and other savoury treats drifted from ever popular festival stalls.

No one seemed to pay any heed as they walked along the now-familiar route to the great weeping Cherry Tree, where once again, Touko tapped a wand onto one of the tree's knots, the wood coming to life, with the tree _shifting_ shape to become a portal.

As before, they stepped through it into the city time forgot – the geofront called _Mahoutokoro_ – and flew.

* * *

><p>Touko took them along a different path this time, towards one of the bridges of the underground city. He wondered why they weren't going to the city core, where he could see the lights and sounds of a celebration happening – Tanabata apparently being a big deal down below as it was above, but seeing a masked figure on the bridge, he thought he knew the answer.<p>

This must be the representative Atlas had sent.

In the dark, the figure seemed like anyone else here for the festival, dressed in a yukata of midnight purple patterned with the faintest impression of red-violet leaves and held together with a golden obi. The figure's face too was covered by an almost avian mask, half porcelain, half gold, reminding him like nothing so much an owl.

"You have brought him," the figure said quietly – in perfect Japanese, if somewhat formal. She was apparently female from the sound of her voice. "I am grateful, Aozaki Touko."

"So long as payment is delivered, no thanks are necessary, Director," Touko replied, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement. "Would you like me to introduce you as well?"

"Indeed," the other spoke, with perhaps a hint of…was that amusement?

Shinji couldn't tell, as he couldn't see the other's face – though hearing the other's title of _Director_ intimidated him beyond words, as any who rose to lead one of the Great Branches was likely on the level of a Dead Apostle Ancestor.

"Very well. If you wish, then so be," the puppeteer noted with a dry chuckle. She gestured from to the figure. "Matou Shinji, allow me to introduce the Director of Atlas Academy – Sion _Eltnam_ Atlasia."

…_Eltnam_?

He knew that name…had last heard it in the Underground Chambers, from the TATARI.

"Director," the Matou boy greeted, bowing respectfully. If she was an Eltnam, did she know about…

"Director, this is Matou Shinji," Touko continued. "But then, you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Such could well be assumed, Aozaki Touko," the head of Atlas intoned. Shinji definitely thought he recognized some amusement there, but not why, as she turned to him. "After all..."

…and then she removed her mask, revealing a face that had long haunted his dreams since the attempt to steal the Stone, a face he thought he'd never see again.

"I do not find your company…disagreeable."

The face of Sialim Sokaris.

She seemed older, taller than he last remembered, skin not as dusky, but it was _her_. The girl who had trembled in terror before the image of the TATARI. The girl who had excelled in potions. The girl who had been his friend.

"…you," he breathed. Why? Why did she stand before him now? And how?

"Me," she confirmed, her lips quirking for a moment into what might have been a smile – but only for a moment.

"I thought you were dead…" Everyone had said so, even the Headmaster. There'd even been a funeral for her. "We all thought…"

"…that Sialim Sokaris was dead?" So—no, Sion questioned. "Their assumptions are correct. Sialim Sokaris is dead. She died shortly after she was born, years ago. She was – or would have been – my twin."

"Your twin," he repeated. That…that would explain a great deal, actually, including… "That morning, before the first day of class, you nearly called yourself Sion, before you corrected yourself."

"S-such is understandable due to a combination of being unaccustomed to informality and having never used the name," the purple-haired Alchemist answered.

"Hence you preferred Sokaris."

"The name I bore before I was granted the right to be called Atlasia."

"Not 'Eltnam'?" Shinji asked, as that was both her middle – and apparently the name of the family she was heiress to.

"No. In Atlas, the last name of an Alchemist is a title in its own right, with the more learned given the names of gods – or fey," Sion explained, wincing a bit at the mention of fey. "For example, Osiris, Isis, Sokaris…or _Oberon."_

…there was a certain venom in the way she said the name of the faery king, as if there were some sort of grudge there. Something deep, abiding, and personal. Perhaps he would not have noticed if this was truly their first meeting, but he'd lived with her for about half a year, and one learned a few things in that time.

"Oberon?" he repeated, noting that a flicker of something that seemed like more than annoyance on her face.

"A nearly unparalleled Alchemist who discovered the secret of creating the Philosopher's Stone." She fell silent for a moment, as if considering what else to say. "And the one that brought ruin to the Eltnam."

"TATARI," Shinji said, remembering the form her boggart had taken. But did that mean… "Does that make you…?"

_A Dead Apostle._

Which would explain how she was able to use the witchcraft of Hogwarts, though not how she controlled her vampiric impulses. Unless she'd been asking the House Elves to give her raw meat and goblets filled with blood, but he didn't think that was the case.

"No," was Sion's reply.

"No?" Shinji asked, confused. He distinctly remembering TATARI saying he kept her alive – and if she were a powerful magus, she would become a vampire immediately, but…

"I discovered a cure, and worked to attain it," she said brusquely. "Something my ancestor had learned of long ago but discarded as useless, as he wished to seek immortality – power – through becoming a phenomenon. That is why I was at Hogwarts. To recover what had once been lost."

"But while at Hogwarts, you were still…"

"A unique case, due to TATARI's nature. One who was not yet a full vampire, but could wield the power of TATARI, turning illusion into reality. For example, the belief of others that I was a simple first-year student and could perform witchcraft."

He supposed it made sense, Shinji felt the urge to tease, just a little bit, to see how she would react, and see if this was indeed Sokaris.

"So those rumors about you being a metamorphmagus…they were right after all?" he inquired, looking at the girl intently. "Since those words about a performance with enough skill to be mistaken as the real thing…?"

"Of course not," Sion corrected, looking away and seeming a bit flustered, showing that like most Alchemists, she disliked imprecision. "The theory under which each of the two mechanisms function is quite different."

Shinji almost laughed then, as this was how Sokaris would have acted, but was struck by his words.

"…a performance…" he murmured. Which had unfortunate implications of its own. For example. "And what about us? The Stone Cutters? Hermione?" He was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. And for all he knew, he'd never have the chance again. "Was that all an act too?"

…_with the Stone as your aim from the beginning?_

He looked down, not wanting to look at her in case she said it was, that she'd simply used him and the others for her own ends. Granted, the fact that she stood here – that she had called him here and was sharing this secret with him argued otherwise, but he didn't know.

Shinji had once thought himself a master of lies, but with her, he knew he was outmatched. When someone's very nature allowed her to become what others wished or feared…well, that was something he could only envy.

Warmth – and something hard.

He looked up, startled as he felt her hand pressing something into his, only to find that they now held a length of willow together.

His mother's wand.

"I am an Alchemist of Atlas. I do not lie when I can avoid it."

"Hence you went by Sokaris, because that name was also yours. Not…"

…your sister's.

"Indeed. You trusted me with your secret, Matou Shinji," she said, raising their hands as the light of the wand illuminated their faces. "As I now trust you with mine. You understand what that means."

To trust someone with a secret like this was the deepest bond possible between magi, especially Alchemists, who valued information above all else.

"…why?"

Because she didn't have to do this. It would be safer for her not to – though he supposed that as the Director of a Great Branch, she didn't have much to worry about in terms of safety.

"You were my first friend," she admitted. "The first person who did not see me simply in terms of what I could do. Who aided me when I asked. And thus I owe you a debt."

"…and what about Harry?"

"I paid it in part by saving his life."

"…but I thought…"

Harry had said Sokaris had been knocked to the ground and hit with a Stunning Spell, so how…

"A simple _Stupefy_ would not truly disable me. Or any magus, were our circuits open."

And suddenly Shinji thought he had a good idea what had happened.

"…you killed Quirrell and took the Stone."

"Indeed."

"So that's what happened," he whispered, as he could easily imagine a Director-level magus defeating Professor Quirrell, Voldemort or not. Though… "But I thought the damage came from a reflected Killing Curse."

"Some, but not all. And Quirrell still lived, though the spirit within him did not."

"Voldemort."

"…did you know Harry would survive?"

"Given what had occurred a decade ago, the probability was high," Sokaris answered, gently taking the wand back. "And had it not occurred, the Philosopher's Stone can cure even death. As long as the spirit remains, resurrection can occur."

"Which is why Voldemort wanted it for himself, and needed Quirrell as a host."

That in itself was difficult to take in, though what was even more so was…

"…and it can cure vampirism?"

But that…was impossible. It was common knowledge among magi that once someone became a Dead Apostle there was no going back. If that equation were to be changed…if perfect immortality were possible…

"I am a living testament to its success, with the abilities of an Apostle, but no cost," the Director of Atlas replied. "And now that I have the Stone to work against, I can certainly create more."

Shinji didn't know what to say. If what she was saying was true, and he had no reason to doubt it was…then the balance of power had profoundly changed in the moonlit world.

"…what do you plan to do?"

"You know of what I fear, Matou Shinji," Sion said quietly. "Of what I seek, and who I must stop."

"TATARI. Your Ancestor."

It was funny how Ancestor in that context had a double meaning, given he was both her forbearer as a man, and as a vampire.

"The Thirteenth of the Dead Apostle Ancestors," she confirmed, eyes hard and yielding. "That is the quest to which I have set myself. And until TATARI has been eliminated from the world, and…Ries rescued from his clutches, I cannot stop. I am not unlike the Boy-Who-Lived in that sense."

She shook her head, seeming a bit disgruntled.

"Know this, Matou Shinji. There will be a place at Atlas for you, should you desire it – most of our Arts do not require Magic Circuits. Indeed, many alchemists cannot perform nature interference."

That…was tempting. To be offered a spot in one of the Three Great Branches, by the Director of that Branch…

Still…

"Thank you, Director," he said, "but for now, I intend to make my own path."

Her hum of consideration was almost husky.

"Such was within my calculations, Matou Shinji," the purple-haired girl said, nodding a little stiffly. "The offer will remain open, should you desire it. I request a geas of you though, that you not reveal what transpired without my permission."

A small price to pay, as he realized what an honor it was to learn all of this, to know the truth – something that no one else in the world would ever know.

"Agreed, Director."

They shook hands, the onmyouji and the Alchemist, marking their agreement.

"Then this concludes my business here as Director, save for one item," Sion said, nodding to the puppeteer, who had been waiting. "Aozaki, if you will?"

Shinji turned to Touko expectantly, wondering what it was that was left.

"Apart from the business of that failed assassination attempt—you have proven to be an interesting boy. Even catching the attention of the new Director of Atlas Academy and finding interesting artifacts like the Diadem and the Philosopher's Stone," Touko smirked, as Shinji looked down, feeling nervous at her gaze. "The Eltnam girl has arranged for you to be trained in the art of Occlumency, as well as a number of other mental arts. Your friend Potter as well, when he comes to visit."

"I see," Shinji said, his mouth dry. "Thank you."

"Don't thank her really – she's just making sure her secrets are protected," the puppetmaster continued. "Still, if I have to be bothered with training you, I wonder…would you like a trial run at being my apprentice? This will only be during your breaks, of course."

…was there even a need to ask?

"Y-yes, I humbly accept, Aozaki-san," Shinji said, all but stumbling over himself in his rush to say yes before she changed her mind.

"You'll probably regret it, you know," Touko said with a long drag of her now smoked-out cigarette. "Its hard work, and you'll have to live here in _Mahoutokoro."_

"E-even so," Shinji said. "I would be honored."

And indeed, he was. One year ago, he had thought himself an utter failure, before he had received the letter from Hogwarts. Now, the future was open to him – and there were six more years at Hogwarts to go.

"Then I will send a letter by owl later this month." Touko nodded. "If that is all, I believe the Director would like you to show her around the City."

Shinji turned back to Sion, raising an eyebrow.

"Director?"

"You have spoken much of your country's traditions at Christmas and Valentine's Day," the purple-haired girl answered, looking towards the light of the city, with the booths, decorations, and more. "As I am here, I would like to experience Tanabata firsthand."

Shinji blinked. Well, it wasn't as if anyone back in Fuyuki would miss him tonight, and he did enjoy the Alchemist's company. He'd missed her – a lot, if he were honest. And he knew after tonight, she'd be gone.

So he simply smiled.

"As you wish, Di—"

"Sokaris." Uncharacteristically, she stopped him from speaking further.

"Hm?" Shinji asked.

The girl – his first real friend and who knew what else – the Director of Atlas Academy – moved to stand beside him on the bridge.

"For tonight," she said, "I am simply Sokaris."

And so they spent a quiet evening exploring the sights of Mahoutokoro, with him talking to her about the traditions of Tanabata, though he almost thought she knew them already, with the two parting at the dawn, the Alchemist and the would-be Onmyouji returning to their normal lives.

There was much to do, plans to make, things to unravel, and more – but that was another story and another year.


End file.
